


let them all ignore us

by matty_macgregor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Consensual Sex, Consensual Underage Sex, Dirty Talk, Hair-pulling, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, felix is fifteen, felix will do anything to anger his father, mentions of felix with original male characters, set after glenn's death, updates weekly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matty_macgregor/pseuds/matty_macgregor
Summary: Felix had to show his father, to show the world, that he wasn’t goody-goody Glenn.And what best way to do so than fuck the disgraced son of the proud Gautier family?
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Miklan
Comments: 42
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for choosing to read this story! 
> 
> I'm a bit hesitant to post it as it is quite problematic, but I decided to have a go at it nonetheless. Please, remember as you read that Felix is willing. There is no rape at all. He is fifteen though, and angry at his father and sad at Glenn's passing, so his judgment is not the best.
> 
> The first chapter mostly sets things into motion. Sex happens in the second chapter. Don't hesitate to let me know if I forgot to tag something.
> 
> This fic updates weekly on weekends.
> 
> Keep in mind while reading that English is not my first language and that nobody proofread this.
> 
> Enjoy!

He hated him. Felix realised this with little surprise. He hated his father. The feeling had been growing inside his chest for weeks now, and he finally had a name for it. _Hatred. Hate_. Pure and simple. It was more than dislike, so much more. It was visceral. It took root in the deepest part of his guts to consume him thoroughly.

“Felix, you can’t do things like that,” his father was saying, voice oh so reasonable. “It’s not right.”

He sat behind his desk while Felix stood like a naughty child. He was fifteen, he was no longer a child. He was the heir now. Glenn was dead, his mangled body food for the worms. The grief was so fresh, so huge, that it nearly overcame everything else. Felix had to swallow down his urge to burst into tears.

And then, his father had to add oil to the fire by saying: “Imagine what Glenn would think.”

Felix felt as if the world tilted around him. He almost physically staggered from the words. He looked up to stare at his father with wide eyes. His father stared back at him unflinchingly, face pale and calm. A distant part of Felix knew his father must be hurting too, that otherwise he wouldn’t be this cruel. But he couldn’t excuse it. They were all hurting, and yet they weren’t lashing out at others because of that.

Imagine what Glenn would think. Of course the bastard would bring up Glenn to back his threats. He knew Felix had thought the world of his big brother.

His hands turned into fists at his sides. He clenched his teeth. Heat rose to his face. His eyes burned. “Glenn wouldn’t give a fuck.”

His father winced—no well-bred little lord should use that kind of language. The idiot probably never considered that Felix might know words like that, might even know what they meant. “Felix—”

“Will you dismiss him, then?” The stable boy. Felix’s father had found him kissing a stable boy behind the kitchens that afternoon. They hadn’t really been trying to be subtle. Felix hadn’t considered the fact that his father might be looking for him. Otherwise, they would have relocated elsewhere. As it stood, Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius had walked in on his youngest son kissing a man a few years his senior. With their clothes and hair disheveled, there had been no hiding that it hadn’t been a mere chaste peck.

“Yes,” his father said in a tight voice. “I’ve already spoken to his master. He’s gone.”

Felix hadn’t particularly liked him—Nick was it?—except for the fact that he’d been ruggedly handsome. He’d found that most stable boys were kind of good-looking in a rough way that pleased him. Nick hadn’t been the first he’d kissed. There had been a string of them over the past couple of years. Most hadn’t lived on the estate, as they were hired workers who stayed for only a season or two. He’d spotted Nick some three months back. Tall, blond-haired, big hands and nice broad shoulders, he’d had a cocky smile and an arrogant demeanour that had attracted Felix instantly. It hadn’t been long before they were exchanging meaningful looks. Soon after, they’d both shirk their duties to spend time by the pond in the little wooded area near the manor house. Kissing and heavy petting followed in good order. Nick had been exciting and a little rough in a way that hadn’t left Felix unaffected. They’d come close to fucking a few times, only to be interrupted by a passerby or by someone looking for one of them. Felix had been ready to sneak him into his bedroom one night just so they could get on with it.

Then, Glenn died and Felix hadn’t been able to bring himself to care about a quick fuck. Once the grief abated a little to leave room for something else, rage had sprung up. Rage at the world, rage at the situation, rage at his father for not mourning Glenn properly, rage at how the whole thing was being handled. People weren’t _sad_ —they were proud of Glenn. They were proud he had died the death of a warrior. Nobody seemed to care that he’d been more than a knight, more than his sword, more than his duty to protect the royal family. He’d been Glenn Fraldarius, a loving, sometimes annoying, big brother with his heart on his sleeve, wits as sharp as his blade, and a fiery temperament.

Felix wanted to tell his father that Glenn wouldn’t have cared. He opened his mouth to do so, but the words died before he could bring them forth. He didn’t know for sure. He wasn’t certain Glenn wouldn’t have cared. Glenn had been different from Felix in that matter—he’d been more traditional. Perhaps he wouldn’t have liked the idea of his little brother rolling around in the hay with other boys. Perhaps he would even have sided with their father on this matter. They had been close, after all, Glenn and Rodrigue.

A flush rose at the back of his neck. If Glenn were still alive, would he be standing beside their father right now with judgement in his eyes? Would he be looking down his nose at his little brother? Would he be _disgusted_ or, worse, disappointed? Felix realised he couldn’t be certain. Maybe Glenn wouldn’t judge, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be disappointed. After all, Glenn had been looking forward to his marriage to Ingrid. He had been looking forward to fulfilling his duty to the Fraldarius clan by getting married and producing Crest-bearing children.

Felix pulled his mind away from that path to focus on the present. They weren’t talking about Glenn right now, they were talking about the stable boy his father had sacked. Even if Felix hadn’t particularly liked him, it still annoyed him that his father had kicked him out.

“He’s done nothing wrong,” Felix hissed through gritted teeth.

“Anyone laying a hand on the child of a duke—”

“You wouldn’t have sacked a maid if you’d caught me kissing one. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

His father’s jaw tightened, the only sign that he was getting annoyed by this conversation. He heaved a sigh. “Felix, you must understand—a young nobleman fondling a maid is more acceptable.”

“Tell that to the maid who gets pregnant! Though, I suppose you would have sacked her because bastards are shameful, but at least it would have been a _normal_ shame. I hate this!”

“This is not for you to like or not, son, this is simply how things are. We must conform.”

“No, we must not! I’ve done nothing wrong! You ruined the life of a guy simply because he kissed me!”

His father slammed his fist on the top of his desk, making an inkpot rattle. “Today it was kissing, there’s no telling what would have happened on the morrow.”

Felix tilted his chin up. “I’ve sucked his cock too. Be grateful you didn’t walk in on _that_.”

The way his father’s face blanched nearly made Felix smile. Instead, it only angered him more. Why the hell had his father to be so frigging prim and proper? What was wrong with him? Hadn’t he fooled around as a young man? Sylvain had told him that a lot of knights fondled each other when there weren’t any women to be had. It was an open secret that nobody cared about.

“Felix,” his father began in a barely controlled voice. “I shall pretend I did not hear those words. You will leave my office and go to your room. You’re grounded until further notice.”

“Grounded?! I’m fifteen! You cannot ground me!”

“Do as I say, or I’ll have you belted, son.”

Felix snorted. “Yeah, do that. I might even like it.”

He walked out before his father had time to think of a retort.

-

He considered defying his father. He didn’t fear a belting—it wasn’t the Fraldarius way of raising children, but he’d go through it just to call his father a violent bastard afterwards. He could slip out of his room through the window, he’d done it with Sylvain and Dimitri often when they were younger. He could sneak out and find some guy from town to fool with. Except that, if his father found out, he would punish the guy. Felix wasn’t too much of a bastard to cost someone their job simply because he wanted some fondling. He didn’t want to have that on his conscience.

And so, he stewed in anger and grief. He was allowed to leave his room only for classes and sword practice. Whenever he did so, a discreet attendant would follow him everywhere to keep an eye on him. He couldn’t linger anywhere without the page clearing his throat meaningfully. It was annoying. It was humiliating. At fifteen, he should be allowed to be free. The other noble kids he attended school with could do as they pleased. They recounted tavern brawls and street performances and time spent with prostitutes. Meanwhile, Felix had to be home by sundown, like he was six rather than fifteen.

He considered trying to woo a classmate. A few were attractive. Those who were aiming for knighthood were especially interesting—lance-wielding did great for shoulder muscles. Despite that, Felix found them lacking in a way he couldn’t explain. Perhaps it was their haughty airs. Perhaps it was because he’d known them for a long time. Perhaps it was because they were too _safe_. Most nobles were boring. Felix had been considered an oddity amongst his peers because he’d liked playing outdoors and going home dirty. Except for Sylvain and Dimitri, nobody seemed to consider it fun to run about in the forest until their clothes were ruined.

It would be better than nothing, and his father wouldn’t be able to fire any of them.

Except that maybe he could cause trouble nonetheless. Rodrigue Fraldarius was the duke, after all. Everybody else in their territories answered to him. Barring the royal family, he was one of the most powerful nobles of the kingdom. He’d certainly have no qualms about ruining a family because their son had been with his own son.

It was starting to look like Felix was screwed. He had no idea how he was going to find someone after all this. He couldn’t, in good conscience, cost anyone their job simply because he was horny. And, even if he didn’t care, people would start noticing a pattern: whenever a young man got too friendly with the duke’s son, he would lose his job or his reputation would be ruined. It was so unfair. Felix envied Sylvain—his friend could frolic with anybody and his own father didn’t give a shit.

And so he stewed in a mix of anger, resentment, sadness, and grief. Although he missed Glenn like a piece of himself had been torn away, he couldn’t help being resentful of him. With his death, everybody had turned their attention to him. Whenever Felix met someone he hadn’t seen in a long time, the first thing they did was offer their sympathies, and then comment on how _proud_ he must be that his brother had died a warrior’s death. Nobody seemed to care that Felix would have much preferred for Glenn to have been a coward—this way at least he’d still be alive. Felix had said so a few times, and people had laughed it off as the grief of a young boy. His father’s eyes had flashed angrily at the comment.

The days went by agonizingly slowly. Felix threw himself in his martial training like a man possessed. For a few hours, on the tiltyard, he could forget about everything. The burning in his muscles, the sweat pouring down his face, the thirst in his throat, they overpowered his brain for a while. Exhaustion was the best remedy for sleeplessness. He wanted to be a good swordsman, wanted to be the best, and fighting seemed to be the only way he could vent his pent up rage without being chided. His father commanded his technique, but the compliments sounded hollow.

Felix wasn’t Glenn, after all.

By the time summer rolled by, both Felix and his father were at their wit’s ends. After a third time of Felix’s schoolmaster complaining that he had skipped class, Felix got a thrashing. The schoolmaster requested it of the duke, and the duke nodded his assent with weariness. It had never happened before and Felix got through it with head held high. He didn’t cry out or weep the way other boys did. Honestly, it was more humiliating than it was painful. A leather strap against the seat of the trousers, wielded by a feeble old schoolteacher, was almost laughable. The old man was furious that Felix didn’t apologize afterwards. His father was getting tired of his behaviour.

Felix didn’t give a shit.

-

“I’m sending you to Margrave Gautier for the summer,” Lord Rodrigue told him one late afternoon.

They were back in his study. Felix had noticed that they rarely talked outside of this room nowadays. His father summoned him here whenever he had something to say, as if Felix were simply another one of his employees. He was never offered a seat, merely expected to stand in front of the desk.

“Why?” Felix asked suspiciously. His father wasn’t stupid—surely he knew spending the summer with Sylvain was anything but a punishment for Felix.

“Because I need to think, and I cannot do it with you around.”

The words hurt far more than Felix had expected. They sank into his heart like thorns. He swallowed painfully, uncertain how to react to this. “And…?” He prompted, sure this wasn’t the end of it.

“And nothing. You’ll be leaving on the morrow with an escort of guards. Pack your belongings promptly. I expect you to behave while you’re at Gautier manor. I doubt very much Gilles will tolerate your nonsense.”

“Just say so that you hope he’ll beat me bloody the way he does with his sons,” Felix said nastily. He gasped mockingly. “Oh, no, wait, we aren’t supposed to mention that in polite company. Family business is family business, eh? We cannot get involved with what happens in another household, even if the heir gets thrown into a fucking well.”

His father’s eyes flashed. “Felix—”

“But I suppose if it had been Dimitri being pushed down stairs or locked out of his house during a snowstorm, you would have stepped in. Oh, wait, actually, it should have been _him_ left to die of exposure because it’s _his_ fault if Glenn is dead!”

Sometimes, it was easy to forget that his father was a knight as well as a pen pusher. Faster than Felix would have thought possible, the old man was out of his chair and slapping him. The blow made stars of pain burst in his brain. He rocked on his heels, caught flatfooted. His hand went to his throbbing cheek. He couldn’t help the watering of his eyes.

“Don’t ever say anything of this sort again, Felix,” his father said very softly. “I am sorry for what Sylvain went through, and you know I would have intervened if I could have. But you cannot blame Dimitri for what happened to your brother. He is a child still, just like you. He lost his parents, Felix. He witnessed a massacre. He barely survived. I won’t allow you to blame him for what happened to Glenn in my presence again.” He straightened. “You are excused.”

Felix glared up at his father through his tears. He would have killed him right now if he could have. If he’d had his sword at his belt, he would have stabbed the old bastard. Hell, it took all his willpower not to throw himself at him just to claw his throat out. He shook with tension, his muscles quivering. He felt like he would explode if he didn’t do something, _anything_.

“I hate you so fucking much,” he hissed. He took a step back to put some distance between the two of them. “You’ll regret this, old man. I’ll humiliate you so fucking much you’re going to wish I had died in Glenn’s stead.”

“I already do, son, I already do.”

-

Felix barely saw the journey from his father’s territories to the Gautier lands. The guardswomen accompanying him, sensing his mood, kept their distance. The miasma of rage and pain swirling in Felix’s mind made it impossible to hold a conversation. He merely sat on his horse and allowed it to follow the one in front of it. The smarting in his cheek disappeared after a couple of days. The red imprint had been stark against the golden hue of his skin, stark enough for people to notice. He didn’t care. He kept his chin up. He didn’t bid his father goodbye. He couldn’t even remember what he’d packed, only that the first thing he’d reached for when returning to his bedroom had been his sword.

The terrain grew harsher the further north they went. Despite it being early summer, the air turned cool enough to warrant a cloak. Up on distant peaks, Felix saw the glint of white snow. Leafy trees became sparser, leaving more room for coniferous ones. The ground underfoot was flat, except for slight bumps here and there. The road was well travelled and their little party met quite a few people. Men and women in work clothes passed them by. Carts could be seen being pulled by oxen or old horses. Here, people’s hair was in shades of red or dark blond. Felix, with his black hair, stood out like a sore thumb. Since Fraldarius and Gautier were neighbouring territories on friendly terms, nobody really noticed.

Felix had nowhere to release his anger. It steamed inside of him, impotent, with no outlet. He tried talking his escort into sparring, but the women all refused him politely. The fact that his father had thought it best not to leave him alone with men annoyed him further. What was the old man thinking, that Felix would slut it up with just anyone who had a cock?

(The thing was, he probably would have done it just to annoy him.)

By the time they spied Margrave Gautier’s keep high up its lonely hill a week later, Felix was exhausted. He could hardly sit his horse. Everything hurt, both inside and outside. He just wanted the journey to end. He wasn’t even sure he was looking forward to seeing Sylvain anymore. The last time they’d spoken had been after Glenn’s state funeral. Sylvain had been utterly distraught at Glenn’s death—he’d loved him like an older brother. Despite this, he’d been attentive to Felix, holding his hand and remaining close. Sylvain had, of course, also spent time with Dimitri. He didn’t seem to understand that, without Dimitri, Glenn would still be alive. At that time however, Felix hadn’t really realised that either. His mind had been too much in a fog to think straight. He didn’t know how he would react to Sylvain now, didn’t know how he would react should his friend mention Dimitri.

He just wanted a bath and a pillow to rest his head on.

His father had sent word to the margrave via a messenger bird, so Felix was expected. The old keep loomed from its perch atop the hill. Made of mismatched black and grey stones, it had an air of ancient potency. It had withstood centuries of battering from the Sreng inhabitants as well as the unfavourable natural elements. The walls had been smoothed by the perpetual wind. The four turrets reminded Felix of drawings of ancient fortified cities seen in history books. The place looked bleached of colour. Even the clothes the people wore were drab.

The courtyard was bustling with normal daily activities when Felix and his escort reached it. Servants recognized him and bowed to him in a way that he hadn’t gotten used to yet. A young boy seized hold of his horse’s bridle, allowing him to disembark. He was so exhausted that he couldn’t bring himself to look dignified as he dismounted. For a second, he had to keep his hand on the pommel of his saddle not to collapse. His legs were cramping. He wasn’t used to spending so long on a horse.

“Fe!” Sylvain called the second he spotted him. Felix saw him hurrying from the tiltyard with a training lance still clutched in his hand. His smile lit up his whole face. “There you are! I wasn’t expecting you for another day!”

“We rode hard,” Felix said. His voice was slightly scratchy from disuse.

The lead guardswoman bowed to Sylvain. “My lord, we would ask for a page to carry our young master’s belongings to his room. Then, we shall rest and be on our way. Duke Rodrigue expects us back promptly.”

Sylvain nodded. He beckoned at a couple of young men, then gestured at them to take the bags from the packhorse. They did so without a peep of complaint. Felix watched them go in a tired haze—normally, he’d tell them to be careful with his belongings, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care right now. A soldier was then promptly summoned to look after the Fraldarius house guards. With that dealt with, Sylvain wrapped an arm around Felix’s shoulders and steered him towards the door.

“You look dead on your feet,” he commented.

Felix sighed. “I am.”

“Come on, let’s get you to bed, then.”

Felix allowed himself to be guided towards the bedroom he’d occupy during his stay. Sylvain talked as they walked. He kept his words light and cheery, and Felix found comfort in the familiar voice of his friend. He realised he had missed Sylvain a little, a feeling that had been lost amongst the storm of other emotions that had swallowed him whole.

The guest bedroom was the same he usually occupied. He barely took notice of it. He sat down heavily on the nearest chair and bent to unlace his boots with clumsy fingers. The scabbard of his sword rattled noisily against the wooden armrest. His fingers were stupid with cold. The bloody laces were full of knots and wet, making them slippery.

Suddenly, horrifyingly, there were tears in his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he crying?

The second the first sniffle was out of him, Sylvain was kneeling in front of him. With sure hands, he untied the laces of his boots. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently.

Felix kept his head lowered, hoping his fringe would hide his eyes. “Everything,” he mumbled. His voice was thick with unshed tears. His throat felt too tight, his chest too full.

Sylvain sighed. He grabbed Felix’s face and tilted it up. Their gazes locked. Sylvain’s brown eyes were gentle and full of worry. He thumbed away the tears. “Don’t cry, Fe. Look, how about we sleep, and then you tell me everything?”

Felix nodded without hesitation. Part of him was embarrassed at how quickly he was mollified, at how easily Sylvain could soothe him. He was ashamed of showing weakness in front of his friend. Sylvain was two years older than him—surely, at seventeen, he didn’t have time for a weepy, snot-nosed guest.

Whether he had time or not however, Sylvain didn’t rush him. Felix got up, wiped his face with his sleeve, and turned down the bed. The fur blanket that served as coverlet was incredibly soft under his fingers. The sheets had been warmed. He lied down on the feather mattress with a long sigh. He didn’t care about his dirty clothes—he needed to rest or he’d just fall in a faint.

“Want me to stay?” Sylvain asked. His voice sounded distant as Felix’s mind drifted towards sleep.

“Hm-hmm,” Felix mumbled.

He was dimly aware of Sylvain lying down behind him, pulling him close.

Then, darkness engulfed him.

-

He didn’t tell Sylvain what was wrong. Or, at least, he didn’t tell him the whole truth. When they woke a couple of hours later, Felix felt too clear-headed to be honest. It was about Glenn, he said, and it wasn’t fully a lie. Somehow, recounting what had led to this forced vacation away from his own home seemed shameful. He suspected Sylvain was open-minded, but he couldn’t be certain. The thought of his friend being disgusted by his preference in men was unbearable.

And so he didn’t mention it.

They didn’t talk about Dimitri either.

In fact, they barely talked about anything that mattered. Felix didn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved by this. He decided to let sleeping dogs lie—Sylvain’s presence served as a balm on his raw emotions. He had to be content with that. It was enough that he was far from home, far from his hated, hateful father.

Things went smoothly for about a week. Felix got back much of the sleep he hadn’t known he’d been lacking. The eerie silence of the keep that had creeped him out as a child served to calm him. He went to bed early and got up late, a rare feat that made Sylvain laugh. Felix spent most of his days trailing after his friend while he attended his duties. As heir to his father, Sylvain was expected to study, train as a knight, and learn the functioning of his estate. Felix avoided the classroom as much as possible, but he did enjoy the time spent on the tiltyard. Sylvain was a remarkable fighter when he put his mind to it, which was sadly not often enough. Felix heard more than once his master-at-arms complain at his poor attendance. It seemed that Sylvain didn’t think the whole thing necessary, even if he’d witnessed firsthand the real duties of the margrave. He had seen battle from up close. He’d fought. He’d _killed_. Despite that, he didn’t appear unduly worried about bettering himself.

Unlike Felix. After he’d gotten properly rested, he hit the training ground hard to make up for lost time. Almost everybody knew who he was, so nobody complained or tried barring him access. He slipped unobtrusively one morning in a group of swordsman trainees, and went through the drills with them.

Felix had been taught how to fight with a sword—but it was at the Gautier estate that he learned how to fight once he’d been disarmed. A battle didn’t end because his weapon had been knocked out of his hand. He learned, the hard way, how to use his fists. It was akin to brawling; it wasn’t dignified, but damn if it wasn’t satisfying.

What would his father think if he saw him grappling in the mud with a bunch of other young men? Felix hoped it would give him a heart attack. He hoped his father remembered Nick the stable boy, and worried about Felix sucking the dick of his new training companions.

He considered doing it. A young man named Wade had caught his eye. The guy was tall, strong, capable, with scarred fists and a quirky grin. His toilet humour annoyed Felix mightily, but it was a trait he could ignore easily. His goal wasn’t to banter with Wade, it was to bed him. He thought Wade might not be indifferent to him either; he’d caught him looking his way more than once. Felix knew he was good-looking, knew how to play on his looks to their best advantage. He toyed with Wade then, not averting his eyes when their gazes met, licking his lips often if they ate together in the mess hall, pulling his hair away from his neck to fan himself after training, batting his eyelashes, allowing lingering touches. The only obstacle was that Sylvain was usually around, so finding himself alone with Wade wasn’t easy.

Then, there came a better prospect, one that appalled Felix so much he had to wonder if he hadn’t gone soft in the head.

The prospect rode in one late afternoon seemingly out of nowhere on his horse, barking orders at a stable boy. The training yard being near the courtyard, Felix couldn’t fail to hear the commotion. He looked in that direction in time to see Miklan Gautier sliding off his horse, and throwing the reins into the face of the lad hurrying to help him. There were a few other riders with him, rough-looking men and women who appeared to have been out in the wild for a while. Annoyed murmurings rose around Felix at the sight of the disgraced eldest son. Miklan might not have been kicked out yet, it was only a matter of time. From what Felix had heard through the grapevines over the years, the margrave kept Miklan around mostly as a feral dog on a leash. He was let loose once in a while whenever it was needed. Otherwise, he was barely welcome in his own home amongst his own kin.

Felix hadn’t seen Sylvain’s brother for more than a year. He obviously hadn’t been at Glenn’s funeral, and he hadn’t been at home the last Felix had visited his friend either. Miklan had to be around twenty now. He was a beast of a man, tall and big and always scowling. The air around him practically crackled with hatred. People hurried out of his way or cringed away when he looked at them. His red hair was longer than Sylvain’s, shaggy and thoroughly unkempt. His clothes were disheveled, dirty, even fraying at the hem. His boots were old leather that could use a bit of polish. Even his horse, a large black thing, looked slightly wild with an uncombed mane and a dirty coat. Miklan barely spared anyone a look before he was marching away, his followers on his heels. He left a whirlwind of uneasy activity in his wake.

Felix watched him go. His grip had gone slack on his sword. Dimly, he could hear his training companions muttering under their breath. A terrible, terrible thought had just popped into his head.

What if he seduced _Miklan_?

A shiver ran down his back at the preposterous idea. No, no, he couldn’t do that. Miklan was a bastard. He’d been a bastard all his life. He’d been hurting Sylvain ever since he was a child. He’d even tried killing him on multiple occasions. He was coarse and vulgar and crass and probably evil too. He’d tormented both Felix and Dimitri when they’d been younger, calling them Sylvain’s little girlfriends. Felix remembered with self-disgust how he’d tried befriending the bastard at first, believing he had to be a good guy since he was his best friend’s big brother.

Yes, it was a mad idea, a mad plan. Miklan would break his arms the second he got too close to him. Hell, he might even try to break _Sylvain’s_ arms just to punish Felix.

But it made sense nonetheless.

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He would be killing so many birds with that one stone. Miklan was the perfect candidate because he was thoroughly flawed. He was out of range of Felix’s father’s anger—he couldn’t be dismissed or chastised since the Fraldarius duke had no sway in the Gautier territories. Because he was a pariah amongst genteel society, Felix’s father would be appalled if he ever learned of what had transpired between them. It would be so much worse than Felix fooling around with a stable boy.

And because Miklan was a pariah, nobody would ever believe him should he tattle. If he went around with wild accusations of the Fraldarius heir making eyes at him, nobody would believe him. They’d call him a liar. They’d probably think he was saying these things in the hopes of tarnishing the saintly reputation of the Fraldarius clan. He was a bastard, which meant Felix wouldn’t feel bad if he fell further from grace.

And Miklan was kind of hot. He was kind of hot in a way that made Felix’s guts twist. He was dangerous, unpredictable, violent even. He was big and strong, with apparent muscles stretching the fabric of his tunic. The large scar barring his face gave him a savage look. The fact that he didn’t give a shit about his reputation was enticing. There was something attractive about someone who no longer cared about what others thought of him. It was so different from the people that surrounded Felix—people like his father who thought appearances were everything. Miklan was the type of noble who didn’t mind getting drunk at parties. It wasn’t because he could get away with it, it was simply that he didn’t care. Not caring was powerful. Being free of his inhibitions had to be liberating.

Felix wanted that.

The only downside to this was Sylvain. Felix couldn’t be sure that Miklan wouldn’t tell his little brother everything. Felix didn’t know how Sylvain would react to that. He didn’t want his friend to think less of him. He didn’t want Sylvain to think he didn’t care what he’d gone through because of Miklan. It wasn’t that Felix didn’t care—in fact, if he could, he’d kill Miklan without a second thought. It was simply that Miklan was so unsuited for him, that their coming together would be scandalous, that Felix couldn’t let this chance pass. He had to get back at his father, somehow. He had to show the old man that Felix wouldn’t be cowed into submission.

He had to show his father, to show the world, that he wasn’t goody-goody Glenn.

And what best way to do that than fuck the disgraced son of a proud family?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.
> 
> Once again, please remember that everything is consensual! Mind the tags also!

As if the goddess Herself wanted Felix to succeed, She provided him with an opportunity to put his plan into motion the next evening. He’d been terrified that Miklan would leave before he had a chance to have a go at him. After his stormy arrival, he hadn’t been seen again. He hadn’t been present at supper, and Felix hadn’t quite been bold enough to seek him out. Sylvain had remained with him throughout the day anyway, making slipping away difficult.

But today was another story entirely. Sylvain’s father called for him early in the morning, and Sylvain told Felix afterward that there had been bandits spotted in a nearby town. His father wanted him to take a few soldiers and chase them out. Felix’s first reaction was to ask if he could tag along, before remembering his plan. No, there would be plenty of occasions to fight bandits in the future. He might not have another shot at Miklan.

He thought he would be nervous. Instead, only excitement bubbled up in his chest. It was similar to the thrill he felt before facing an opponent on the tiltyard. At breakfast, he caught sight of Miklan stumbling into the dining hall, disheveled with his tunic half undone and barefoot. Even from a distance, Felix was able to smell the alcohol on him. People muttered in disapproval. Miklan, totally uncaring, sat at a lone table to dig into his bowl of porridge. He ate the same way he did everything else: with little graces. Watching him, it was difficult to reconcile the fact that he was Sylvain’s brother. They hardly looked like each other and their behaviour was thoroughly different.

Still, Felix couldn’t help his fascination with the older Gautier sibling. He hated him profoundly, yet there was no denying a certain attraction. The attraction itself probably wasn’t for Miklan in particular; it was for the chaos he could create in Felix’s life. It was the potential Miklan had of humiliating Duke Rodrigue. Miklan was the unsuspecting key to Felix’s revenge on his father. On his brother. On the whole stupid society.

He got up. Breakfast forgotten, he walked towards where Miklan was seated. He had no intention of talking to him, only on attracting his attention. He bumped into his table, making the cutlery rattle. Annoyed, Miklan looked up to glare at him. Felix returned his look boldly with his chin tilted up. For a second, Miklan didn’t seem to know who he was. Then, recognition flashed in his eyes. His scowl deepened. Before he had time to say anything, Felix was walking past him. He allowed his knuckles to brush Miklan’s sleeve in a quick touch. Although he didn’t look over his shoulder, he could feel the other man’s eyes on him as he left the dining hall.

-

“What the fuck are you playing at, Fraldarius?”

They stood in the corridor that lead to Miklan’s bedroom. It was a bit out of way, slightly isolated from the rest of the keep. It was late in the night, probably around midnight. Felix had been waiting here for hours for the other man to return. After discreet inquiries, he’d learned Miklan had gone into town with his friends. Felix had feared this would throw a wrench into his plans—if Miklan were too drunk, he might be more difficult to handle. As it stood, there was the stench of alcohol surrounding him, but he appeared more tipsy than outright drunk.

Felix stood in his path, blocking access to his room. His heart thrummed painfully hard in his chest. His throat was tight. His fingers tingled with excitement.

He’d become a master at hiding his emotions, so he knew none of his thoughts showed on his face. He kept his features carefully neutral. “I’m not playing at anything,” he replied coolly. He didn’t move even when Miklan took a menacing step closer. “What do you think I’m doing, actually?”

“I think you’re being a little shit. Sylvain’s not here. Find someone else to babysit you before I throw you out the window.”

They were close now, close enough that Felix could smell the outdoor on Miklan’s clothes. If he extended his arm, his fingertips would touch the other man’s chest. Miklan towered over him, scowling in annoyance, feet planted firmly on the ground like he expected a fight. Once again his red hair was disheveled. The scar on his face looked livid—it had to be recent, badly healed. There were black smudges around his eyes that served to make him appear older than his years. He stank of cheap liquor and unwashed garments. Had Felix not known who was standing in front of him, he might have confused him for a peasant.

Without breaking eye contact, Felix took one slow step closer. The toe of their boots nearly touched now. He kept his posture unthreatening, his face open. Miklan was a man of violence. There was no telling what he might do should he feel cornered. Felix hadn’t brought his sword with him, and he doubted very much his few hours of lessons in brawling would be of help. Without understanding why, this sent a frisson down his spine.

“I know Sylvain’s not here,” Felix said, keeping his voice low. “That’s not who I want to see.”

Miklan’s frown deepened. “Then who do you want to see? You’ve spent so much time here, don’t tell me you can’t find your way around anymore.”

“You.” Felix had to refrain himself from rolling his eyes; was the guy truly this obtuse, or was the ale dampening his wits?

A snort. “Why the fuck do you want to see me? Are you here to threaten me to leave Sylvain alone? Do you think I’ll be more impressed than the last time you did it because you’ve put about half an inch in height and maybe a pound in weight?” A grin appeared on Miklan’s face. “You’re still Sylvain’s little yapping dog. All bark and no bite. I’ve seen you on the tiltyard with your little sword. Do you think you can kill someone with that toothpick?”

Felix bristled. He pushed down his anger to focus on the matter at hand. He cocked his head a little to the side, knowing it would send strands of black hair to frame his jaw prettily. He allowed his lips to twitch in a ghost of a smile. “You’ve watched me.” He made the comment offhandedly, like it was the only thing he had heard in Miklan’s diatribe.

“How could I not? Everybody’s talking about you, Duke Rodrigue’s youngest son who arrived out of the blue.” Miklan’s gaze followed one strand of Felix’s hair distractedly before he blinked, as if he were surprised.

“Duke Rodrigue’s _only_ son, now.”

Miklan shrugged one shoulder. “Meh, he had another son? Can’t remember. Honestly, I always think he has two daughters when I see them.”

“I can’t say the same about Margrave Gautier. I know he has sons.” Felix gave Miklan a slow onceover from head to toe. His smile widened a fraction. “It would be very hard to mistake you for anything else.”

Finally, Miklan seemed to catch on to something. His muscles tensed. A wary look appeared on his face. He narrowed his eyes at Felix. “What the fuck are you playing at? Isn’t it past your bedtime? Do you need me to fetch your nanny?” When Felix only quirked an eyebrow at him, he grunted: “Whatever. Move aside. Just spend the night there for all I care. I’m too drunk to deal with a fucking kid.”

When Miklan made to step around Felix, Felix blocked his path in one smooth motion. He could almost see the tension rising in the older man. There was colour in his cheeks now and a muscle quivered in his jaw. He actually considered it a small miracle that Miklan hadn’t punched him yet. Pressing his advantage, he moved closer. He kept his hands unthreateningly at his sides and his eyes firmly on the other man’s face. The red spreading over Miklan’s face was interesting, making him look flustered. There was a bit of sweat on his forehead. They were close enough now that Felix had to really look up not to break eye contact.

Holy shit, Miklan was bigger than he had expected.

Deliberately, very slowly, Felix reached an hand out. Miklan didn’t move, barely batted an eyelash. His breathing came in in raspy little puffs. Confusion was writ plain all over his face. He actually jumped when Felix’s fingers closed around his own. His whole hand twitched, but he made no move to pull it away. Still staring at him, Felix brought it up to his face.

He pressed the rough palm against his cheek. It radiated intense heat and seemed to engulf the whole side of his head. Miklan stood stock still, eyes comically huge. “I’m not a kid,” Felix said softly. He turned his head into the touch until his lips brushed the thumb. “That’s why I’m here.”

For a second, they stood unmoving. Felix kept Miklan’s hand pressed to his face, heart hammering inside his chest. He’d never had to go this far to seduce anyone. He was moving blindly here, uncertain how his advances would be received. Miklan could simply take his hand back and slap his silly face, and there was little Felix could do to stop him.

But he didn’t think this would happen. Miklan might seem surprised by this, nothing in his body language said he was averse to it. His eyes were roaming over Felix’s body, losing their drunken haziness.

Then, faster than Felix could have anticipated, Miklan’s fingers closed into his hair in a tight fist. He dragged him in roughly until they were chest to chest. The sharp pain made Felix cry out. He stood on his tiptoes in the hopes of relieving a bit of the pressure. Miklan twisted his head, turning his face upwards. He leaned in close enough that Felix could feel his breath brushing his cheek. “You play with fire, little Fraldarius. Careful not to get burned.”

Felix hissed at the sting in his scalp. He made no move to free himself. “What if I want to get burned?”

Miklan stared at him for a moment. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Somewhere in the recesses of Felix’s mind that wasn’t addled yet, he marveled at the restraint Miklan was showing. The situation was dangerous, but not dire. If he were to apologize or laugh it off, Miklan would let him go. He’d shove him to the ground, yell and swear at him for good measure, but he’d let him go. Whatever happened next would be on Felix’s head only.

He chose to speak through actions. He’d grabbed fistfuls of Miklan’s tunic out of reflex when he’d been dragged in. He loosened one fist and let his hand trail downwards slowly. Miklan’s breath hitched. Felix could feel the heat of his body through the fabric. He could also feel the hard planes of his chest and stomach as his hand continued its trek south. Past the leather sword belt. Past the laces of trousers. He couldn’t help his little smile of victory when his hand reached Miklan’s crotch. “Oh, I know what I’m talking about,” he said.

Miklan’s eyes had darkened considerably. His lips were pressed in a thin, bloodless line as he stared down at Felix. The grip he had in Felix’s hair didn’t slacken, not even when Felix moved his hand over his crotch to feel him through the fabric of his trousers.

“Do you have any idea what your daddy would do to me if he saw us like this?” Miklan asked, sounding slightly breathless. “Do you think I want to get hanged just for a chance to fuck your scrawny ass?”

Felix shrugged one shoulder. Under his rubbing palm, Miklan’s dick was hardening slowly. “Better to be hanged than to be thrown into a monastery like he’d do to me.”

Miklan chuckled mirthlessly. “You seem to be a little slut, you’d have fun with all those men in skirts.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Felix tightened his grip minutely. “I like _real_ men.”

Miklan breathed out noisily. Then, without letting go of Felix’s hair, he twisted him around and slammed him face first into the nearest wall. Felix yelped in pain, barely managing to stop his nose from smacking into the brickwork. Miklan pressed against his back, pushing his hips into his. He was half-hard already. Felix shivered at the feeling. He was panting hard, both from the manhandling and from excitement. He dug his fingernails into a crack between two bricks in the vain hope of anchoring himself.

“You’ve ever been fucked by a real man?” Miklan asked, punctuating the question by a sharp thrust of his hips.

Felix’s mind swam. He had to swallow twice before he could answer. “No.”

“What, only by a horny little boy, then?”

“No.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Holy shit, are you a _virgin_?”

Felix would have thrown him a look over his shoulder if his head hadn’t been firmly held in place. “I’ve sucked my fair share of dicks, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Miklan burst into laughter. He pushed his hips into Felix’s again in a way that made him shiver with want. “Have you now? Somehow, I can imagine that easily. You’ve that look about you that screams you like dicks.”

“I do, so how about you show me yours and we get on with it?”

“You’re gonna regret that, little Fraldarius,” Miklan murmured, his mouth suddenly close to Felix’s ear. “I’ll make you scream and cry for you daddy, I promise.”

The thing was, Felix believed him. He had to grit his teeth not to let out an embarrassing noise. His trousers felt uncomfortably tight. Nothing had happened yet and he was already strung up like a bow. “You can try,” he managed to huff out.

Apparently taking this as a challenge, Miklan wasted no more time. He finally let go of Felix’s hair, only to seize his arm instead. He dragged him towards his bedroom, yanked the door open on squeaky hinges, and pushed Felix inside roughly. Darkness relieved only by dim reddish ambers in the hearth greeted his eyes. He almost stumbled on a rug. He’d never been here so he had no idea of the lay of the room. The door slammed shut, cutting off the torchlight from the corridor. Felix didn’t have to time gather his bearings that Miklan was grabbing his hair again, tugging at it until Felix understood he needed to kneel. His knees hit the floor with a bone-jarring impact. He was breathing hard, heart pumping madly under his ribs. The hand left his hair. He heard the rustle of fabric.

Miklan grabbed his jaw next, digging his thumb into the corner of his lips. Felix opened his mouth obediently with an eagerness that surprised him a little. The other man’s fingers tasted like dirt when he shoved two of them into his mouth. Felix let him explore for a moment. The fingers pushed past his tongue to the back of his throat. He had to force himself to relax not to gag. Miklan eagerly shoved his fingers further down as far as they would go. Judging by the way his breathing caught, he was pleasantly surprised. Felix closed his lips around the knuckles, sucking on the fingertips and swirling his tongue around them. Miklan swore quietly.

“Shit, you weren’t lying,” he commented as he pulled his wet fingers back. “Try not to gag on this, then.”

He once again forced Felix’s mouth open. This time, it was his dick he pushed in instead of his fingers. Although Felix had expected it, he tensed nonetheless. Miklan barely gave him time to get used to his girth that he was pushing further in. His dick was thick and long, far more than what Felix was used to. He had to make a conscious effort to relax his throat. He focused on breathing through his nose. One of Miklan’s hands returned to his hair while the other held his chin, as if he were afraid Felix would pull back. This annoyed him—he wanted to be here, why did Miklan think he wouldn’t see this through?

He leaned forward, taking as much of Miklan’s dick down his throat as he could. The stretch hurt a little. There were tears in his eyes and air barely made it down into his lungs. His head swam. The salty smell of the other man’s skin filled his nostrils. Since he could hardly move because of the iron grip on him, he gave an experimental suck. He reached up to wrap his fingers around the part of the shaft he couldn’t fit into his mouth. Miklan swore again. The thick vein under his dick pulsed. Felix didn’t know if Miklan wanted to be sucked off or if he wanted to fuck his mouth. He hadn’t had time to ask.

“That’s it, take it, little slut,” Miklan muttered. He pulled back before shoving back in with a sharp thrust. “You gonna gag or what? I hope you don’t want me to stop already?”

Felix didn’t have time to even think of answering. The sharp thrust hit the back of his throat and he groaned. It took everything he had to remain relaxed and to mind his teeth. He really, really doubted Miklan wouldn’t strangle him if he bit him accidently. He allowed Miklan to fuck his mouth. He didn’t move, kneeling there on the hard floor while drool dribbled down his chin. In the gloom he couldn’t see the other man, only make out the shape of his silhouette. Miklan’s hands held his head in a vice, the grip sure to leave imprints on his jawline. What would his father think if he saw this, he wondered? He tried picturing the thing: Felix Fraldarius on his knees in front of Miklan Gautier, his mouth wide open and stuffed full with a large dick, unable to move due to the firm grip on his hair. But it wasn’t the worst. The worst was how he was aroused by this. If his father were to walk in right now, he’d see the tented front of his trousers. He would know that Felix loved every second of it.

He was so lost in his own little world that he startled when Miklan pulled his dick back. Felix took in a deep, shuddering breath. The back of his throat hurt. He swallowed convulsively and licked his lips out of reflex. He wondered if the salty taste would ever fade.

“You’re full of surprises, Fraldarius,” Miklan commented. “You bunch are perfect at everything you do. I wouldn’t have expected this extended to sucking dicks.”

Felix tilted his head forward until he could press his lips to Miklan’s dick. The grip on his hair relented just enough to allow him this movement. He deposited little kisses and nips and licks all over it, relishing the way it made Miklan squirm. Whatever he babbled about sounded slurred, like his mind couldn’t quite keep up. Felix didn’t listen to his crass words, preferring to focus on what he was doing. He learned the shape and texture, memorizing where the shaft was most sensitive. It was fully hard now and Felix was pretty sure he could make Miklan come in seconds if he let him.

Instead, Miklan took a step back, letting him go entirely. Felix’s scalp and jaw burned from the rough treatment. He too was panting hard. There was sweat on his forehead. He wiped the drool from his chin with the back of his wrist.

“Get up. Undress,” Miklan ordered.

Felix stood up on shaky legs. Heat coiled in his lower belly. His nerves thrummed pleasantly. The first thing he did was undo his ponytail—it was ruined now and served no purpose. His loose hair cascaded down his shoulders. He combed his fingers through the tangled locks to bring them into a sense of order. Somewhere nearby, he could hear Miklan puttering about. His shape was little more than a silhouette against the glow of the dying ambers. Felix guessed that he was crouching by the hearth to light the fire up. The thought that they could see each other made him shiver. The darkness had leant a sort of intimacy to the whole thing. If Felix had wanted, he could have imagined it was someone else shoving their dick down his throat.

The first reddish flickers lightened the gloom. Shapes began to take more precise forms—a bed, a desk, a chest, the outline of a window. The flames catching at the logs seemed to highlight Miklan’s orange hair. He was standing now, his eyes watching Felix. It was still too dark to discern features, but Felix felt the weight of his gaze nonetheless.

The room thrummed with a sense of anticipation. Neither of them were satisfied with what had just happened. They both wanted more while being uncertain there would be more. Felix feared Miklan would have a sudden attack of conscience, and realise that fucking the fifteen-year-old best friend of his little brother might not be the greatest idea. Why doing that would be worse than pushing said little brother into a well, Felix couldn’t tell. Still, there was that sense of urgency pushing him to act.

He undid the laces of his tunic with fingers that barely trembled. He tugged at them until the neckline gaped to reveal the skin of his throat. Then, he pulled the tunic over his head and let it fall at his feet. He couldn’t see Miklan’s expression, but the tense lines of his body suggested interest. Felix continued. He bent to undo his boots. He toed them off. The floor underfoot was chilly. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He was hot all over. It was the first time he would be entirely naked in front of someone. The quick tumbles he’d had with other boys had been hurried affairs that didn’t lend themselves to this type of intimacy. One didn’t need to be fully naked to suck on a dick or to shove fingers up one’s butt.

While he normally was modest, he wasn’t self-conscious. It didn’t embarrass him much to undo his trousers and slid them down his legs. There was something in the hungry way Miklan was staring at him that was empowering. In a way, the position of power had shifted subtly. While Miklan was still the strongest of the two, it was Felix who held the high ground. If he decided to put a stop to this, Miklan would _ask_ him to stay. He’d do anything in his power to keep Felix from leaving short of restraining him physically.

Felix had him by the balls.

He stood there on the cold floor in his smallclothes, letting Miklan drink him in. It was brighter now that the flames in the hearth were growing. In the flickering light, he read raw hunger on Miklan’s face. Felix wasn’t vain enough to believe it was simply because he was good-looking. No, he could tell, almost if he’d heard it out loud, that Miklan relished the thought of _sullying_ him. He wanted Felix to regret coming to him. He wanted to put Felix into his place. Was it because he was his hated little brother’s best friend? Was it because he came from a clan with a spotless reputation? Was it simply because he was a virgin? Felix didn’t know. He didn’t care.

Whatever it was he had that Miklan wanted to tarnish, it made him powerful. And Felix hadn’t felt powerful in a very, very long time.

Miklan walked closer and slowly circled him. Like a bird of prey spotting its next meal, his eyes were sharp. There was a crooked grin on his face. “It’s too bad you aren’t a girl,” he said. His hand touched the small of Felix’s back before tracing upwards to the nape of his neck. “Fifteen-year-old girls are the best. Still, I suppose that, from behind, you could be mistaken for one.”

Felix didn’t hide the shiver that ran up his spine at the other man’s touch. The fingers clutched the back of his neck a tad too tight. He had no doubt Miklan could spread his hand around his throat to strangle him without much trouble. It was terrifying. It was exciting. He turned his head slightly to glance at Miklan. “If I were a girl, I’d be betrothed to Sylvain by now. I wouldn’t be here.”

Miklan chuckled. He leaned in and nuzzled Felix’s hair with an amused huff. “Perhaps you’d be betrothed to him, but you’d still be here and you’d still be begging for my cock, because you’d still be the same little slut.” He circled Felix again until he stood in front of him, his hand not leaving his throat. “And I’d still fuck you to ruin you for him.” He pressed his thumb into Felix’s bottom lip, his eyes darkening further. “Willingly.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“You’ve got some guts, Fraldarius, I’ll give you that.” Miklan spun Felix about until he was facing the bed. “Come on. Get on your hands and knees.” He gave him a little shove.

Felix didn’t stumble. He knew Miklan was talking to him this way in hopes of humiliating him. He didn’t seem to realise that Felix enjoyed it, that he didn’t feel diminished by the words. Being called a slut hurt so much less than being told by his father he should have died in Glenn’s stead. He shook his head, not wanting to think about that. No, he truly liked Miklan’s behaviour. It was better than being coddled. It was exciting, being seen for who he was rather than for who he was replacing.

He paused by the side of the bed to pull his underwear down his legs. The white piece of cotton slid down his thighs slowly. He had no idea why he was doing this, only sensed this was the right thing. He didn’t spare Miklan a look—he wanted the other man to realise Felix didn’t give a damn about him. He wasn’t here for Miklan himself—the guy was simply useful. Once the smallclothes had pooled around his ankles, Felix climbed on the unmade bed. The soft fur of the coverlet tickled his naked, hot skin. He seemed to feel every hair of the pelt acutely. In fact, it was as if every inch of his skin had become oversensitive.

He didn’t hesitate to get on his hands and knees. He arched his back a little, and it was only when he heard a quiet curse that he looked over his shoulder. Miklan hadn’t moved from his spot. He was staring at Felix with open lust. His florid face was flushed red, making the scar barring it stand out starkly. He hadn’t tucked himself back into his trousers, so his dick jutted out for all eyes to see. It was wet with Felix’s spit. He didn’t seem to care about this.

“Shall I start without you?” Felix taunted. He spread his knees a little more, then repositioned himself until he was holding himself up on his elbows rather than his hands. His limbs trembled slightly. His fingers tightened into the coverlet. He was so turned on he marvelled at the fact he could act so uncaringly. “Perhaps you’re too tired to do anything but watch? Or too drunk? Where has that infamous Gautier lust gone off to?”

Taunting a beast like Miklan might not be the best idea, but damn if it didn’t make him feel powerful. Miklan’s muscles quivered. His jaw clenched at the insult. He might have been terrifying if not for the dick hanging out of his trousers.

“You little shit,” he spat. He crossed the floor in three large strides, jumped on the bed, and seized Felix’s hair again. “I’ll make you regret that!” He pushed Felix down until his face was pressed into the blankets. “When I’m done with you, you’ll have to crawl back to your room!”

Felix had no breath to answer. A groan of pain was lodged at the back of his throat. He could hardly breathe with his nose pressed into the fur blanket. For a moment, his world narrowed down to the odours of dust and unwashed fabric. His scalp stung and the angle of his spine made his neck hurt. Miklan leaned over him, pushing his hips into his in a way that drove what was left of air out of Felix’s lungs. There was no more barrier between their skin. He could feel Miklan’s hard, hot dick against his ass. He couldn’t stop himself from moaning. Heat blossomed dizzyingly quickly to his head.

Then, Miklan released his head. Felix rose to his elbows, panting. He clawed a strand of hair out of his mouth and threw a glare over his shoulder. Miklan only laughed at his annoyance.

“You look so fucking hot like that,” Miklan said, his eyes roaming over the expanse over Felix’s back. His hands grasped his waist in a bruising grip. “You’re so tiny, I’m going to break you.”

Felix shivered, both at the words and at the way those big paws fitted around his waist. “Do it,” he panted. “Stop fucking talking and just do it.”

“Yeah, yeah, just let me admire the view for a second. It’s not every day you get a Fraldarius hottie in your bed.”

A dozen replies ran through Felix’s head at that, but he pressed his lips together to keep from spewing them out. It seemed like Miklan would go his own pace, and Felix didn’t want risking antagonizing him too much. What if the guy grew tired of his smart mouth and kicked him out? Instead of talking, he rested his forehead on his forearm. He pushed his ass out in a way he hoped to be enticing. He wanted to get on with this. He was so turned on he feared he might just cry if he didn’t touch himself. His brain was in a haze.

He jerked in surprise when he felt a finger brush his hole. Miklan’s amused laughter made him want to kick him. The brush, almost gentle, sent a spark of arousal straight to his dick. His whole body seemed to seize with it. He was trembling so hard he feared he wouldn’t be able to remain in this position for long. The muscles in his legs had turned into jelly.

The second brush tore a moan out of his throat. He’d touched himself there often, and a couple of other guys had done it too, but it felt different this time. He had no idea why, didn’t care to find out. He tightened his fingers into the coverlet, refusing to touch himself. He didn’t want to show Miklan how good that mere touch was. He didn’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing that he was nearly coming undone already.

“Stop tensing or this’ll never work,” Miklan grumbled.

“Stop teasing me!” Felix barked. He turned to glare at Miklan. “What are you waiting for?!”

“Look here you little shit, I can’t just shove my dick in! It doesn’t work that way! Now, relax, or I’ll strangle you until you faint and then I’ll fuck you!” He punctuated his threat with a sharp slap to Felix’s butt that made him gasp in outrage.

“Bastard,” Felix muttered.

He once again pressed his forehead into his arm, forcing himself to relax his tense muscles. He knew Miklan was right—pushing one of his own fingers inside himself proved difficult if he weren’t relaxed. How could he expect to take a dick otherwise? He bit his lip hard. Instead of focusing on the coil of lust tightening inside his belly, he focused on the feel of the blanket underneath him. It was soft with age. It had no doubt belonged to a white wolf once. Its coat had been silvery and shiny. It had probably been one of those huge animals that roamed the northern forests, deadly. Who had killed it? A long-dead margrave? A servant? Had it been a gift?

He managed not to tense when a finger brushed his hole. He breathed out softly, slowly. It was going to be all right. He wanted this. This was no longer only to piss his father off—he truly wanted to get fucked. He didn’t care whether it was by Miklan or someone else as long as someone did it.

Miklan moved behind him. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Out the corner of his eye, Felix saw him reaching for something on the bedside table. Oil. His heart kicked up a notch. He adjusted his position minutely, shifting on his knees to get himself more comfortable. He wanted to see what the other man was doing, but he knew Miklan would tease him about it if he did. At least now Miklan wasn’t talking much, only muttering to himself once in a while. From this close, Felix could smell the odours of liquor on him. It was annoying.

When one hand returned to his hip, Felix did his best not to twitch. Miklan held him firmly in place as he slowly pushed one oiled finger into his hole. He wasn’t particularly gentle or slow about it. At first, Felix’s body tried to fight the intrusion. He had to make a conscious effort not to flinch. He bit down hard on his tongue to smother a whimper. It didn’t quite hurt, he just knew he had to get used to it.

Before he had time to get adjusted, Miklan pushed another finger in. His fingers were thick and long, stretching Felix more than he was used to. This time, there was no hiding his noise of discomfort.

“Stop whining,” Miklan barked. His own voice sounded tight. “Just take it.”

Felix didn’t tell him to go slower or to be more careful. He gritted his teeth when Miklan spread his fingers. The burning sensation wasn’t quite new, but it was more intense. Nobody had been this rough with him, not even himself. Miklan wasn’t trying to make it good either. He just wanted to stretch him to be able to fuck him. Perhaps it should have been frightening. Perhaps it should have been humiliating. And perhaps it was both these things. Felix didn’t care. Despite the pain, his erection didn’t flag. With every new harsh thrust, his body relaxed, accommodating it.

The third finger did hurt. Felix flinched despite his best intentions. Annoyed, Miklan wrapped his free hand around the back of his neck and pushed him down on the mattress. He held him there as he fucked him with his fingers. Felix let out a whimper or two before he managed to get his voice under control. There were stars bursting behind his closed eyelids. He couldn’t quite take in a full breath with the way Miklan was leaning hard on him.

“That’s it,” Miklan panted when a twist of his fingers brought a moan out of Felix. “Take it like the good little slut you are. You’re taking my fingers so good. You were clearly made for this.”

Miklan’s fingertips brushed that spot inside again that made Felix’s world burst. His hips pushed back against the fingers. He sobbed out a moan. His skin was on fire. Everything was on fire. Sweat covered every inch of him. His hair stuck to his face. He buried his face in his arms, no longer able to control his voice. His muscles quivered. The liquid burning inside his belly boiled. He’d never felt this way before—good and bad and like everything was too much at the same time.

Then, it stopped. It took a second for Felix’s lust-addled brain to realise that the fingers were no longer inside him. He sagged a little, his legs shaking nearly too much to support his weight. With a trembling hand, he swept the hair out of his face and looked over his shoulder. Miklan knelt behind him, a manic grin on his face and eyes burning. He was flushed. He was coating his dick with a generous helping of oil. Felix immediately focused on that. His breathing caught in his throat in what he refused to believe was fear. Holy shit, had Miklan’s dick always been this huge? How had he fitted that into his mouth? How was it going to fit inside him? If Miklan weren’t careful, he could truly hurt him.

“Just get on with it,” Felix hissed.

“You’re scared,” Miklan taunted. He wiped the remaining oil on his fingers on Felix’s lower back, then gripped his waist tightly.

“I am _not_ scared.”

“Good. Don’t worry about screaming, by the way. The servants are used to it. They won’t investigate.”

“I’m starting to think you’re only a bloody windbag—”

The words died on his tongue when Miklan suddenly pushed the tip of his dick in. The pause that followed was the only respite he’d allow Felix. Felix, head bowed, body quivering, tried not to tense. He bit down on his lip. Miklan swore under his breath. He shifted his hold, moving his hands from Felix’s waist down to his hips.

Then, he jerked Felix backward roughly.

Felix might have screamed, he wasn’t sure. His throat was raw and there was a searing pain coming from the lower part of his body. He grabbed the headboard in a bid to anchor himself against the pain. It sent lances of fire up his spine. His cheeks were wet and his vision was blurry and there was the taste of blood in his mouth. He would have collapsed if Miklan hadn’t been holding him up on his knees.

Another rough push, and the pain sparked again. Felix refused to be consumed by it. He locked his jaw and dug his fingernails into the carved wood of the headboard. “Fuck, fuck,” he chanted through gritted teeth.

He didn’t listen to whatever nonsense Miklan was spewing. He didn’t want to hear his mockery and feared he would hear pity. Rather than subjecting himself to it, he braced himself better and pushed back against the next thrust. There was still a lot of pain, a whole lot of it, but it was no longer all-encompassing. His senses were returning. He became aware of the sound of harsh panting filling the room, his and Miklan’s. He became aware of the heat and the sweat covering his skin. Warm liquid dribbled down his thighs mixed with oil. His dick had softened.

He was pissed at himself, pissed for being weak. Why was he making such a big deal of it? He wasn’t getting killed, wasn’t being tortured or maimed. It was just fucking. It was another milestone. It was one more thing he could use to shame his father. He imagined it: going to his father once he returned home, casually telling him he’d been fucked by Miklan Gautier and how he’d loved every second of it.

Anger lent him strength.

Felix arched his back. He moved his hips a fraction to test the burn. Carefully, he reached behind himself where Miklan was breaching him. The stretch felt impossible—Miklan was buried to the hilt inside of him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Miklan groaned. He paused for a second, as if overwhelmed. Felix couldn’t find enough breath to retort. “S-shit, I can barely move, just wait a sec—”

He shifted his position, one hand going to rest on the mattress near Felix’s head while the other remained on his hip. He leaned forward until he could nuzzle Felix’s hair, a gesture that was almost tender when compared to how things had been going so far. His breathing was hot against Felix’s already hot skin. Letting go of his hip, Miklan used his free hand to seize Felix’s chin. He forced his head to the side until he could deposit biting kisses over his jawline and down his neck.

“M-move, you ass,” Felix panted, wincing at a particularly vicious bite to his shoulder.

Miklan let go of his chin to straighten. He planted both his hands firmly on the mattress. He pulled back slowly until only the tip of his dick remained inside. Felix braced, fisting his hands into the blankets underneath him. With how close they were, he could feel how tightly wound up Miklan was.

Miklan thrusted back in sharply. Felix’s whole body jerked forward and he cried out in pain. Miklan didn’t give him time to adjust—he didn’t pause or relent, not even when Felix’s first moans came out as sobs.

It seemingly took forever for the pain to abate the slightest bit. In that infinite time, Felix felt sure Miklan would break something in him. His thrusts were too hard, too deep, too _much_. Felix couldn’t catch a breath, could barely stop from getting his head slammed into the headboard. The world narrowed down to that one point of contact between them.

Amongst that cloud of pain however, there was the tiniest ray of pleasure. Felix felt it once in a while, when one thrust hit that particular place. It sent stars bursting in his brain and whimpers of pleasure dribbling down his mouth. The arousal that had burned inside him earlier never quite got reawakened. It probably could have, if Miklan had been more careful or if he’d at least tried to make it pleasurable.

As it stood, Felix’s body tethered between pleasure and pain, a careful balance that he didn’t know how to upset. He moved his hips, meeting the thrusts out of reflex and because he wanted—needed—to be an active participant in this. His erection between his legs didn’t really come back to life. He knew that if he could touch himself, it would be so much better, but he lacked the coordination to do so. He needed both hands to brace himself against the headboard.

Miklan grunted and panted above him, spewing nonsense. Occasionally, he’d lean in to bite at Felix’s neck, adding another layer of pain/pleasure to Felix’s overwrought mind.

Felix had no idea how long it lasted. Miklan’s thrusts grew even harder and more erratic the closer he got to his release. The length inside of him seemed to grow hotter, bigger still, until it finally spilled. Warmth flooded Felix in a gush that made him gasp.

Miklan stilled over him, panting harshly. “Fuck, kid,” he said between breaths. “You’re the worst lay I’ve had in a while.”

There was nothing to answer to that. Felix didn’t move. He was shaking badly without really knowing why. He winced when Miklan pulled his softening dick out of him. Seed dribbled down the back of his thighs. Felix crumbled on the mattress the second Miklan no longer supported him. That movement alone was enough to send pain lancing up his back.

“Come on, get up,” Miklan said. He seemed in control of himself again. “I don’t care if you have to crawl back to your room. Get up before I throw you out naked.”

“Fuck you,” Felix grumbled tiredly. It took him a moment to gather the necessary strength to push himself into a sitting position. He ached all over, worse than after a demanding training session. It seemed he couldn’t quite stop trembling. He looked up at Miklan who’d already tidied himself up. “You’re terrible.”

“Yeah? Well, at least it’s not me who chose to get fucked by a terrible guy just to piss daddy off.” Miklan seized Felix’s arm and hauled him to his feet. “Now get lost, Fraldarius.”

Felix wasn’t sure how he managed to remain standing. The room spun around him for a moment, making him dizzy. He glanced at the bed, noted absentmindedly the red spots on the white linens. He wondered if they were ruined. Carefully, with slow, deliberate movements, he dressed back up. He could feel Miklan’s eyes on him as he did so, amused and totally uncaring. Felix supposed he saw the humour in the situation: things hadn’t gone exactly his way and Miklan knew it. Still, Felix had accomplished what he’d set out to do. He’d had sex with Miklan. He could recount it all to his father once he returned home.

When he bent to retrieve the ribbon he used to tie his hair, Miklan snatched it first. Smirking, he brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. “A memento,” he said smugly. He wrapped the ribbon around his thick wrist. “A little something to remind me this has happened.”

Felix stared at him, uncertain of the point he was trying to make. “Whatever. Keep it, I don’t care.”

“Good. Say hi to daddy for me. Wish I could see his face when you tell him about this.”

“I’ll write you a letter,” Felix retorted sarcastically. The fog was clearing, leaving him able to think more easily. “And leave Sylvain alone, you bastard.”

“It’ll take more than you sucking my dick to convince me to leave him alone.”

“I hope he kills you one day.”

“Meh, this’ll probably happen. And when I die, I’ll say hi to your saintly brother for you.” Miklan grinned meanly. “Think he’d let me fuck him like you did? He was always prettier than you. At least his ass wasn’t flat.”

Felix gritted his teeth. “What the fuck, Miklan? Leave Glenn out of this!”

He had no idea what he had said, but it was enough to catch Miklan’s attention. His smile widened and his eyes gleamed. “You’re jealous of him.”

“N-no! Screw you, I’m going!” Felix wrenched opened the door—his Crest activated in his rage and the hinges squeaked loudly in protest at the rough treatment. “Fuck!”

“That’s it, run away, little coward,” Miklan called after him. “I’ll go to my grave happy knowing I ruined this for you forever!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was supposed to be three chapters but, since I apparently cannot write anything short, there will be five instead.
> 
> No porn in this one. Felix does a lot of pining for Sylvain, however!
> 
> Also, thanks for the comments, I appreciate them a lot!
> 
> Enjoy!

Whatever anger powered him abandoned him when he was a few feet from reaching his bedroom. His legs went weak with pain. The breath whooshed out of his lungs. His foot caught in an uneven stone on the floor and he nearly pitched face first. He caught himself on the wall, panting hard. He was trembling badly, tremors that seemed to shake him from head to toe. His unbound hair fell into his eyes. His jaw hurt from how hard he’d been gritting his teeth. His knees had turned to cotton, barely supporting him. He could see his bedroom door tantalizingly out of reach. Morning was almost upon the keep. He needed to get out of sight before someone spotted him and asked him what was wrong with him.

Swearing colourfully under his breath, Felix put one foot in front of the other with the hard-headedness that drove his father mad. He wouldn’t collapse there. He wouldn’t _crawl_ to his bedroom like a fucking worm. It didn’t hurt that bad. Miklan hadn’t hurt him _this_ badly.

Finally, his hand fell on the latch. The metal felt cool against his hot skin. He unlatched the door, pulled it open, and slipped into his room.

And then he collapsed to his knees with a groan. His knees hurt, chafed and tender from having knelt on cold flagstones. Shit, if he were honest, everything hurt to a certain degree. He didn’t even know where to begin cataloguing it.

What hurt the worse was his pride, however. For some reason, Felix felt as if he had failed a test. He had set out to do this to piss his father off but, without understanding why, he hadn’t managed it. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t make sense of it. Where had he gone wrong? His plan had seemed flawless when he’d thought about it. Miklan had behaved exactly as Felix had expected he would. And yet, something had gone wrong somewhere.

He wanted to cry. Unbidden tears sprung to his eyes. He pressed his face to the floor, digging his fingernails between two flagstones. It wasn’t fair! Why was everything he did doomed to fail? Even the simplest thing never worked out in his favour. He had fucked this up and he couldn’t even narrow it down to _how_ or _why_.

He collapsed on his side, panting. He winced in pain as his weight rested on his hip—he could imagine bruises forming there already.

He wished Glenn were here. Stupidly, childishly, Felix wanted his big brother. He wanted to run to him and lie down beside him and burrow his face in his chest and be petted until he fell asleep. He wanted Glenn’s soft, smooth voice to comfort him, to talk to him. He wanted his warm presence and his gentle teasing.

He wished Dimitri were here, Dimitri who’d been his closest friend and companion for so long, Dimitri with his naïve attitude towards life and his boundless smiles. Dimitri wouldn’t ask what was wrong. Dimitri would hug him and pat his tears dry with that stupid handkerchief he always carried, because he knew Felix was a crybaby and always forgot to bring one with him.

But, most of all, he wished Sylvain were here. Sylvain who treated him like a baby sometimes, but who was always attentive and funny and who knew how to make light of things. Sylvain would console him and joke until he tore a watery chuckle out of him. Sylvain who was strong and safe like a harbour in the storm.

But it was all impossible. Glenn was dead, the blame lying partly at Dimitri’s feet, and Felix didn’t want to be seen by Sylvain this way. He feared awkward questions, feared judgment or, worse, pity.

Fucking Miklan had been such a damn stupid idea. Sylvain would never forgive Felix for this.

He stayed there for a long while with his cheek resting on the cool stone of the floor. Eventually, his heartbeat steadied. His breathing returned to a more normal cadence. The urge to cry passed. He shivered. The first rays of dawn fell into the room, unhindered by the opened drapes. It grew brighter with every passing minute.

Slowly so as not to jar anything, Felix sat up. He needed to assess the damage. He got his feet and toed off his boots. Then, he made his way towards the vanity mirror. He stood in front of it, eyeing his reflection warily.

At first glance, it wasn’t _too_ bad. Tilting his chin up showed to him the bruises left by Miklan around his jawline. The blueish imprints were clearly in the shape of fingers, but Felix could say he’d acquired them on the training ground. Everybody knew he played rough there. His lips were swollen and bitten raw—once again, this could be excused as a training mishap. A good punch to the face would do that. Except for those, his face relatively unmarred.

He gingerly touched his scalp. It was tender from how much Miklan had tugged at his hair. His hair was a mess in itself, tangled and pulled in every direction. He didn’t relish the thought of taming it with a brush, but he’d have to because he never left it unbound nowadays.

He’d do it later.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. He looked down at himself, at his disheveled clothes he’d put on haphazardly. The worse would be underneath them, he knew. His waistband chafed at the bruises on his hips. He didn’t want to see what it looked like, but he had to. He had to wash before he got to bed.

To give himself some time, he poured water from the ewer into the bowl on the vanity top. It sloshed around noisily, making him jump. It would be uncomfortably cold, but warming it up was too much of a hassle right now. Later he’d abuse his privilege as a noble and ask a servant to pour him a hot bath. He put down the pewter ewer, took a deep breath, and unlaced his tunic. His fingers were surprisingly steady as he tugged at the laces. He pulled it above his head, wincing at the strain it put on the muscles of his back. Then, before he had time to back down, he slid his trousers and underwear down his legs.

There was blood, and dried oil and come sticking to his thighs. He shivered at the sight of it. As he had feared, finger-shaped bruises covered his waist as well as his hips in a rainbow of blueish colours. They seemed stark, standing out darkly against the golden hue of his skin. Anyone glancing them would know what they were. Only one thing would explain their presence there.

He dipped the corner of a towel into the bowl of cold water and began to wash himself. He told himself the shivering was brought on by the coldness of the water. He had to bite down hard on his lower lip when he wiped between his legs. The white fabric of the towel came away a ruddy colour. Pressing there hurt like hell. It had never hurt before, at least not this much. Would this always be this painful, he wondered? He didn’t know, had no one to ask to.

He dried himself up with the clean side of the towel before throwing it away with a spasm of disgust. He put on his sleeping clothes. The soft cotton chafed at his raw skin. He had no idea what to do next. The seat of the underwear he’d worn was dotted with spots of blood. Would it wash out? Were they completely ruined? Did it matter? Normally, he left his clothes in a pile to be picked up by the maid, who would then bring them to the washerwomen. They would know what to do with blood stains, he supposed.

Tiredness weighed him down too much to truly care. As the sun rose higher, he dragged his weary feet to his bed, slipped between the blankets, and fell asleep before his next heartbeat.

-

A dip in the mattress woke him an unknown length of time later. Blearily, Felix blinked his eyes open. He felt as if he’d barely slept for ten minutes.

“Fe,” came Sylvain’s voice from behind him, “why are you still in bed? It’s almost ten!”

Felix groaned, turning on his other side to see Sylvain lounging on the bed beside him, looking like this was his room. With the window behind him, the sunrays falling on him turned his hair into a flaming halo. There was a knowing grin on his face and his brown eyes were mischievous.

“Go away,” Felix grumbled, pulling the sheet over his head.

Of course, instead of listening, Sylvain tried tugging the sheet off him. “But you’ll miss the day! It’s unlike you to sleep in.” A note of worry crept into his voice. “You’re not sick, are you?”

No, he wasn’t sick, he was simply thoroughly fucked out. He couldn’t find a better way to explain it. Everything still hurt from his night with Miklan. In fact, it seemed to hurt _more_ than when he’d gone to bed. His body was sore in ways that had nothing to do with hard training. Even his damn _scalp_ still stung.

He lowered the blanket to expose only his eyes and peeked at Sylvain. “No, I’m not sick. I just went to bed late. Weren’t you supposed to be out chasing bandits?”

Sylvain shrugged. “We’ve been back for a couple of hours. It was just routine stuff. The bandits ran away the second they spotted us. None of them was even from Sreng.” He let himself fall back on the mattress with a theatrical sigh. “All that riding for nothing!”

Felix had no idea what to say. His brain was still in a fog, his thoughts sluggish. He looked at his friend as he lied there on his back, talking nonsense as he was wont to do. It struck Felix as odd that they were behaving this way. Sylvain was seventeen and he was fifteen. Wouldn’t it be considered inappropriate for them to be in bed together like that? Sure, they were both fully dressed, and Felix was under the blankets while Sylvain was atop them, but would Felix’s father mind? Or would he consider Sylvain anything but a threat since he obviously liked women? They had slept together at the Fraldarius mansion often in their youth, and his father had never said anything about it.

Perhaps he’d have something to say about it now that he knew of his son’s preferences. Felix wondered about Sylvain’s reaction should he learn of it. He hadn’t been brave enough to breach the subject with him. Crazily enough, it would have been easier to talk about this kind of stuff with Dimitri. Felix trusted Sylvain, considered him one of his best friends, but it had been easier to confide in Dimitri than in anyone else, even Glenn.

And he had confided in Dimitri. Dimitri knew of Felix’s interest in men. Or, actually, in one man in particular. How long ago had it been when Felix had realised he was in love with Sylvain? Five years ago? It had been a dormant thing—he’d usually be able to bury his feelings deep enough not to let them bother him. At times though, like right now, they crawled out of their hole to the surface.

Felix could only stare at Sylvain’s perfect profile highlighted by golden sunlight—his straight nose, his sharp cheekbones, his strong jaw, his pale eyelashes that were the colour of burnished gold coins, the pale freckles that dotted the skin of his face, the beautiful red hues of his hair, the warm brown of his eyes. Sylvain had always been good-looking, and it was unfair how more handsome he was growing with each passing day. He kept getting taller, broader around the shoulders, stronger. His callused hands were big but gentle. He remained as nice as he’d always been, annoyingly so. His flippant attitude could be annoying. His jokes were dumb. His flirting around was maddening. But he was still warm and safe, and Felix’s heart still tripped whenever he saw him.

It was simply too bad that he could never have him. Felix wasn’t a girl. Sylvain would never look at him this way. He’d always be the little brother he could tease, always the best friend.

Felix kicked him from under the blanket. “Stop rambling and get out! Shouldn’t you be in class at this hour? You shouldn’t skip or you’ll stay dumb all your life!”

Sylvain laughed, unbothered. “Aww, Fe! Don’t be like that! My father won’t mind me skipping while you’re here! I’m ahead of everybody else, anyway.” He rolled on his side and gathered Felix in his arms, blankets and all. “How about we nap instead?”

Felix found himself with his face pressed into Sylvain’s chest, his head tucked under Sylvain’s chin. The arm wrapped around his middle kept him from rolling away. With the blankets tangled around his limbs, he couldn’t even punch Sylvain for being this annoying. He wriggled for good measure while Sylvain chuckled at his expense, before settling down with an annoyed sigh. Fine, he supposed there were worst places to be. He relaxed a little, unable to completely let his guard down. He probably would have enjoyed the moment more if the smell of Sylvain’s skin hadn’t made his nerves thrum with tension. A mix of sweat, horseflesh, and bergamot made his head swim a little. Sylvain’s heavy arm lying across his waist felt good. He was relaxing already, thoroughly comfortable and at ease. They had slept like these often as children, so why shouldn’t he?

“Okay, fine,” Felix mumbled.

He wanted a life like this: a good fuck throughout the night, and morning cuddles. He’d die before he admitted to either out loud, but at least he could admit it in the privacy of his own mind.

-

Why did he have to fall for the biggest womanizer of the continent?

Felix seethed as he watched Sylvain talking to a kitchen maid. They’d been on their way to the training ground when Sylvain had spotted the girl. Immediately, he’d made a beeline towards her, completely forgetting about his so-called best friend. Felix was left to stand there and watch, annoyance rising quickly. The girl giggled and simpered, pretending to be shy while her eyes sparkled with interest. Sylvain oozed charisma and charm, a sure proof that he did this as well as he did everything else. It was kind of sad, and kind of pathetic, and Felix didn’t know which adjective described himself the best.

A yank on his ponytail made him squeak in surprise. Pain blossomed all over his already tender scalp. His hand went immediately to his hair as he whirled on his heel, ready to punch whoever had dared. He came face to face with Miklan grinning like a well-satisfied cat.

Felix hadn’t seen him for a couple of days. The morning after their… _tryst_ , by the time he managed the strength to get out of bed, Miklan had apparently already left. Felix hadn’t inquired as to where, hadn’t cared one wit. In fact, he’d believed the older Gautier brother to be gone for a while—the goddess knew he didn’t stay long in his father’s presence.

Finding himself face to face with him wasn’t as intimidating as he had expected. He had feared that he would be unsettled or, the goddess forbid, embarrassed by what had happened between the two of them. In fact, the only feeling rising in his chest was annoyance at how familiar Miklan was suddenly behaving with him. Never once since they’d met had the older man gone out of his way to talk to him or notice him.

“Well, well,” Miklan drawled. “I’m almost surprised to see you up and about.”

Felix rolled his eyes as he fixed his messy ponytail. To his satisfaction, he noticed that Miklan’s gaze followed the gesture. “I don’t know what you mean. What do you want?”

Grinning, Miklan extended towards him a wooden training sword. “To beat you up.”

The look on his face clearly indicated he believed Felix would refuse him. He thought Felix would take fright and decline to train with him. Any sane person would, really—Miklan was an adult with a lot of experience under his belt. He’d seen real action. He was big and strong and clearly capable of violence. Crest or no, his muscles weren’t only for show. Felix had seen him beat Sylvain to a pulp on the training yard more than once. And while the difference in strength had diminished over the years, Miklan still won most of his bouts against his brother.

Felix snatched the wooden sword hurriedly, a thrill of excitement coursing through his body. He didn’t want an opponent who would go easy on him. He didn’t want someone who would hold their blows back because he was the son of a duke or because he was short or whatever other nonsense. He wanted someone who would go the extra mile to make it hard for him, who would make him truly work for a victory.

Miklan would. He wouldn’t take pity on him, wouldn’t pull his blows. Just as when he fucked him, he would be merciless.

“You can try beating me up,” Felix said, tilting his chin up, “and you’ll probably manage it, but I’ll make you work for it.”

Miklan grinned, a feral thing that made him look more beast than human. He laughed. “You’ve got balls, little Fraldarius, I’ll give you this!”

They marched to the training yard together. Immediately at the sight of Miklan, people pulled back, cringing away from him. Even blooded soldiers moved to be out of his way, afraid to be on the receiving end of one of his nasty punches. Suddenly, it seemed that those who could found themselves something better to do. Young squires glanced uncertainly at each other while their master-at-arms scowled. The grizzled old man didn’t say anything, simply barked at his students to return to their business. A few domestics had gathered on the sidelines to watch. They huddled together, whispering behind their hands excitedly.

The whispering grew louder the second Felix took his place in front of Miklan. People seemed to realise _who_ exactly Miklan was about to beat up. A maid asked in a low, worried tone if she should fetch the margrave. Uneasiness rippled through the yard in a way that made Felix’s skin prickle. He gritted his teeth as annoyance climbed inside him. The worried looks pissed him off. He spotted a few persons inching closer, those few souls brave enough to try saving him from a thrashing. He hated this, hated being underestimated. Those squires looking at him so worriedly should know that he wasn’t a defenseless bloke—he’d beaten a few of them already. Sure, he knew that, objectively, he had little chance of winning a match against Miklan, but that didn’t mean he’d get beaten to a pulp. He could hold his own, could trade blows even with the best.

“Seems like your little fan club is worried,” Miklan taunted. He’d chosen a training sword from the weapon rack and tested its weight in his hand. “Shall we reconsider?”

“Stop being a coward and just do it.” Felix offered his bared teeth in lieu of a grin. “I’ll defend you should someone blame you for trying to break my limbs.”

Miklan barked a loud peel of laughter. “Ah! You’re funny, Fraldarius! Well then, come at me, brat. Show me what you can do.”

The training yard went very quiet as Felix got into position. He inhaled once to feel every one of his muscle, then let out his breath slowly. His anxiety, his nervousness, even his excitement, left his body in one exhale. His eyes focused on his opponent, taking in his form, the way he held himself, the way he held his weapon, searching for a weakness. He could tell, at a glance, that Miklan didn’t take him much seriously. There was indolence in his posture—he held his training sword in his right hand, the left one hidden behind his back like he didn’t think he’d need it. His footwork was precise however, the angle of his body offering as small a target as possible.

He was going to be a tough one to beat, Felix reflected. Excitement tried to mount inside him, but he crushed it. He had to be serious, had to be focused. He was willing to lose this bout only if he didn’t lose _too_ badly.

Miklan allowed him the first move. Felix didn’t lunge blindly—he waited for that perfect split second and attacked. He thrusted, aiming for Miklan’s chest. His blow was deflected and the next one was parried. Felix kept his movements simple, not wanting to overtire himself in the first minute. Miklan moved easily despite his bulk. He parried and blocked blows with an ease that annoyed Felix. Still, he kept calm and aimed for the very few openings he spotted.

Then, quick as a fox, Miklan shifted from defense to attack. His sword flashed and Felix blocked. The crack of wood meeting wood echoed off the high walls of the keep. Miklan didn’t give him a second of respite—he attacked next with a furry of quick, jabbing blows that forced Felix back a few feet. He parried and ducked and evaded, but never quite fast enough. Miklan kept pushing him back, didn’t give him time to gather himself for a repost. One blow connected solidly with Felix’s shoulder, numbing his left arm nearly to the elbow. The hissing sound of concern coming from the watching people fueled Felix’s annoyance further. He ignored the pain.

He saw the next blow coming. With the way it was aimed, Miklan obviously expected Felix to parry it. Instead, Felix waited until the very last second, ducked under it, and thrusted towards Miklan’s unprotected flank. Miklan twisted to avoid being hit—the tip of the sword caught his tunic, but nothing else. Felix nearly lost his footing. Instead of catching himself, he threw himself into the fall, rolled on the ground, and popped to his feet with a slashing wave of his sword. Miklan took a step back, laughing as he nearly got hit in the face.

“You’re fast,” Miklan said, not out of breath at all, “for such a shrimp. I wonder how fast you can run with those short legs, eh?”

Breathing hard, Felix pushed a lock of hair out of his forehead. He kept his sword at an angle in front of him, not willing to let his guard down. “Oh? Don’t worry, I’ll never run.” He lowered his voice as inspiration struck him: “My legs are much better at being wrapped around a man’s waist than at running away from him, anyway.”

And there it was, the opening Felix had been looking for. Miklan did a double take at his words, and Felix seized the chance. He lunged, grasping the hilt of the sword in both hands.

Miklan batted the blow away a split moment before it hit him. His sword slammed into Felix's, throwing it wide, leaving his whole chest exposed. Panic seized him—in a real fight, this was the moment where he died. Even a mediocre swordsman could stab him. Instead of breaking his ribs however, Miklan seized Felix’s sword with his left hand, tugged it sharply past him and, while Felix stumbled forward not to let go of his weapon, he wacked him hard across the butt with his own sword. Then, he kicked him in the ankles and sent him sprawling on the hard ground.

Stars of pain exploded behind Felix’s closed eyelids. The air was knocked out of his lungs. The bone-jarring impact made him bit his tongue until he tasted blood in his mouth. His chin, ribcage, and knees took the brunt of the fall. The world pulsed red as his body throbbed in pain.

“Hey, hey, that’s enough!”

Suddenly, Sylvain was kneeling in the dirt at his side. Felix recognized his voice even through the loud whining noise filling his ears. He opened his eyes carefully to see his friend glaring balefully up at his brother. He was crouching, muscles quivering as if he were ready to jump into action. Felix noted dimly that he had a hand on his discarded wooden sword, like he was about to fight off Miklan should it prove necessary.

It did not.

Miklan laughed. “Relax, brat, I didn’t hurt him. I just put him in his place.” He grinned at Felix, eyes suddenly intense. “You know where to find me if you want a second round.”

Without a look behind, Miklan left the training yard. He threw his wooden sword at the nearest squire who caught it with a wide-eyed stare.

“Fe, are you all right?” Sylvain asked worriedly. He carefully rested his hand on Felix’s back. “Did he hurt you? Do you need the healer?”

Oh, dear, it hurt, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He shook his head and slowly sat up. Gingerly, he touched his chin, felt blood there dribbling down his neck. The knees of his trousers were torn to reveal his scraped, bleeding skin. Though he didn’t think his ribs were broken from the fall, those on his left side throbbed abominably. Shit, even his butt where Miklan had smacked it stung.

“No, I’m fine,” Felix grumbled. He spat a glob of blood mixed with saliva. “I had the situation perfectly in hand. You didn’t have to interrupt.”

“I thought Miklan was about to beat you!” Sylvain retorted, eyes growing wide.

“We were just sparring.” With a grunt, Felix got to his feet. “I don’t need you protecting me.” This fight wouldn’t have happened if Sylvain hadn’t been too busy flirting to take notice of Felix, anyway. Remembering this made him add nastily: “You should go back to your floozy.”

The confusion in Sylvain’s face almost made him feel bad. Almost. Not wanting to apologize, Felix huffed and left the training ground in long strides.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW! Please, mind the tags!
> 
> I wrote this at work and nearly had a heart attack when the only one of my colleagues who reads English walked into my office.
> 
> Thank you for the comments and enjoy!

That evening, during supper time in the dining hall, Felix heard quite a few conversations about _him_. Margrave Gautier was a simple man who enjoyed simple pleasures. His suppers were nothing like the grand royal affairs Felix had witnessed a few times with Dimitri. Here in the north, people sat with whomever they wished and ate however they pleased. There was no need for airs or pretenses. Nobility mingled with men-at-arms and guardsmen and minor lords. The servants were allowed to talk to the guests and, judging by the looks Felix got, their tongues had been wagging.

At one point, margrave Gautier himself beckoned at Felix to ask whether it was true he’d sparred against Miklan that afternoon. Standing proud, Felix said that yes, he had indeed crossed blade with his older son. He hadn’t gone to a healer to get his wounds checked. The scratches on his chin were inflamed and red, apparent.

The gist of the thing was that everybody seemed surprised that he was still alive. Normally, Miklan wouldn’t hesitate to kick an opponent that was already down. Felix wouldn’t have feared a few more kicks—he’d have taken them and he’d have gotten up to continue the fight.

He returned to sit beside Sylvain at the trestle table where his trencher of food awaited. There were other squires at their table, young men and women their ages talking animatedly as they ate. Felix knew most of them by name by now. He ignored them to focus on his meal, his stomach rumbling. The raucous laughter of people who’d had a tad too much to drink filled his ears. Under the table, two hunting dogs were eagerly gnawing on bones. The air was full of smells of greasy sauce, meat, cheese, and spilled ale.

It was so different from the polite suppers at the Fraldarius manor that it made Felix feel as if he were in another world entirely. Back at home, classes didn’t mingle much. The duke and his family had their table isolated from others. They ate sedately from gold cutlery buffed to a shine. They drank watered down wine on special occasions only, and light ale the rest of the time. Dogs didn’t roam between the legs of the guests. The servants were quiet as they brought food, unobtrusive, like shadows. Felix and Glenn had been expected to hold themselves properly at table and to show good manners.

Felix realised with a jolt of surprise that there hadn’t been a family dinner since Glenn had died. The only times he’d eaten at the same table as his father had been on holy day feasts, and only if it would be a breach of etiquette not to host one. The rest of the time, Felix ate in his room alone while his father presumably ate in his own apartments.

It was all for the better. Felix didn’t think he would have been able to eat while watching his father’s face anyway.

Sylvain bumped his elbow against his and leaned closer. “What did you tell Miklan when you fought him?” He jerked his chin towards the back of the room where his brother sat with his friends. “He won’t stop grinning when he looks at you.” His tone had chilled, his eyes turned worried.

Felix quickly glanced over his shoulder, seeing what Sylvain meant. Miklan was seated at the back of the dining hall with his rough-looking friends. There were a few pitchers of ale already empty on the table between them. They were all laughing loudly, raucously, uncaring that they were making spectacles of themselves. While Felix looked, Miklan said something, and they all threw amused glances in his direction. He stared boldly back, daring them to say anything. For half a second, his heart seized with fear at the thought that Miklan might have told his friends they’d slept together. It wasn’t that Felix was ashamed or anything, he just didn’t want Sylvain to learn of this. He then realised that, no, they weren’t grinning lewdly or knowingly. They were making fun of him for getting his ass handed to himself by Miklan earlier that afternoon.

He scoffed and got up.

Sylvain hurriedly grabbed his sleeve. “Fe, what are you doing? Let them be.”

The worry warmed him as much as it annoyed him. He shook his arm free. “I’m just going to my room. My appetite’s ruined.”

“What? Don’t let Miklan ruin your appetite. You know he’s a bastard.”

He almost sat back for Sylvain’s sake. The way his brown eyes looked at him, full of uncertainty, made the love Felix had for him vibrate harder. If only Sylvain didn’t look at other people. If only he didn’t completely lose his head the second a pretty girl walked into a room.

As happened right now. Sylvain’s attention wavered as a serving maid leaned in beside him to grab their plates from the table. He looked away from Felix to turn towards the girl, his charm cranked up a notch. He went from concerned friend to skirt-chaser in the blink of an eye.

Felix stood there awkwardly for a second, heart squeezing painfully tight inside his chest. He knew Sylvain didn’t behave this way because he didn’t care. At his age, potential lovers were far more interesting than a best friend. Felix knew he couldn’t hold a candle to a pretty girl’s appeal in Sylvain’s eyes. Oh, no doubt Sylvain would come running if he got hurt or if he started bawling. But it wasn’t the same. Felix wanted Sylvain to look adoringly at _him_ the same way he was doing with this girl. He wanted Sylvain to rest his hand on the small of his back, to inch closer to whisper conspiratorially in his ear, to tug him in until he sat on his lap to share a laugh.

Suddenly, horribly, his eyes burned.

He mumbled an apology and hurriedly left the table where nobody seemed to notice his absence. The hall blurred around him. Shapes ran together. People turned into splotches of colours. He didn’t care that it wasn’t polite to leave before the margrave did or that he hadn’t even finished his plate. He couldn’t stand being near Sylvain anymore, couldn’t stand being ignored in favour of what he’d never be.

He’d nearly reached his room when he smacked into Miklan at the bend of a corridor. His cloud of misery popped as he took a hurried step backward, unbalanced. His mind whirled—shit, he barely remembered walking the distance from the hall to here.

Miklan grabbed him by the front of his tunic, tugged him closer roughly, and then seized his chin. His fingers dug into his jaw as he forced his head up. Miklan was grinning nastily as he said: “My, my, how interesting.”

Felix blinked rapidly, realising with horror that his eyelashes were wet. He hadn’t cried, of course not, but the tears pooling in his eyes were unmistakable. He tried pulling himself free, but the grip on his face only tightened. “Fuck you!” he spat through gritted teeth.

“I saw you looking at my brother.” Miklan leaned in until his breath brushed Felix’s cheek. “Tell me, little Fraldarius, are you in love with that loser?”

He wanted to shout that _no_ , he’d never be in love with someone like Sylvain, that being in love was stupid and that it happened only in dumb fairy tales. He opened his mouth to say so and nothing came out. Felix might be many, many unsavoury things, he wasn’t a liar. He’d never been able to lie into anyone’s face before, not even his own. The lie stuck in his throat—he couldn’t spit it into Miklan’s knowing face. Miklan knew and it made Felix weak in the knees. He had never told anybody else except for Dimitri years ago. It made him want to puke that the other person who would know of his shameful feelings was _Miklan_. Miklan, who had the power to ruin it, to spoil it.

So, instead, of lying, he kept his mouth shut. He stared up at the other man, feeling like he would just vibrate out of his own skin with how hard his heart beat. His eyes burned. His face was hot. The grip on his jaw made the wound on his chin throb harder.

“You are,” Miklan concluded. He laughed meanly. “I should have seen it coming.” He thumbed Felix’s bottom lip, eyes following the movement hungrily. “It’s too bad you aren’t a girl. Perhaps he would have noticed you.”

Felix hated having his own thoughts repeated to him out loud. His feelings were in turmoil. He was sad and confused and dispirited but, on top of it all, he was mostly angry. Angry at the world and angry at Sylvain and still angry at his father. He was angry at Dimitri for having survived while Glenn died, and angry at Glenn for having done his duty of protecting his charge. Nothing had gone right since Glenn’s death. Everything was such a fucking mess.

The fingers digging into his jaw tightened a fraction, forcing him to focus. He winced in pain, feeling like the fine bone of his jawline could crack at any second. The pad of Miklan’s thumb rubbing at his lower lip sent a shiver down his back. His eyes were dark, hungry, like those of an animal smelling blood. He _wanted_ Felix. Pure and simple. He’d had a taste and now he wanted more. Felix felt flattered by the attention in a way that he couldn’t explain. Miklan was looking at _him_ , seeing _him_. He wasn’t imagining someone else, wasn’t hoping he was someone else.

What kind of fucked up world was it that a man Felix hated respected him more than his own father? At least, with Miklan, Felix knew exactly where he stood. He knew exactly what to expect as well as what was expected of him. It simplified things so much.

Felix reached up, grabbed a fistful of Miklan’s hair, and slotted their mouths together. He didn’t care that he was doing exactly what Miklan wanted him to do—it was what he wanted too. He kissed him to silence the voices of doubt and uncertainty in his head, not caring that they were in the middle of a corridor.

Miklan was laughing as he kissed him back, teeth digging into his lip nastily. He held Felix’s head in place as he shoved his tongue into his mouth. Felix bit his tongue in response, eliciting a muffled chuckle. Miklan pushed him back until his shoulder blades hit the wall. He barely noticed the jarring impact, focusing instead on the strong body pressing against his own. Through their layers of clothes, he could feel the other man’s searing heat. He pulled at Miklan’s hair, muffling a moan in the kiss when Miklan slid a thigh between his legs.

Need arose inside him quickly. He felt it sliding south, removing blood from his brain, making it difficult to think. He was dimly aware that he shouldn’t be doing that—his goal had been to sleep with Miklan _once_ , not to make a habit of it. Last time hadn’t been that great either. He had no doubt that Miklan would be just as rough this time too, just as uncaring.

And that made it better.

Miklan seized his ponytail to jerk his head to the side to expose his neck. Teeth sunk into the skin just below his jaw, biting hard enough to send a jolt of pain coursing through Felix’s body. He groaned, and the next bite wasn’t as hard. He didn’t care that those would leave marks impossible to hide or impossible to explain. Anybody seeing them would know what they meant.

And he didn’t care.

Breathing hard, Felix let go of Miklan’s hair to slide his hands down the expanse of his chest. He hadn’t really touched him the last time they’d been together. Things had gone too fast, which had been a shame, because Miklan’s body was a work of art. Perhaps not his face, but the rest where Felix could get his hands on was. Strong muscles rippled under his palms. Miklan’s shoulders were large, his back was broad, his neck was thick, his arms were huge—Felix doubted he could wrap the fingers of both hands around one biceps. The power, the strength, thrumming through Miklan’s veins was evident, thrilling. He could crush Felix against this wall easily without breaking a sweat. He could wrap one of those meaty fists around his throat and squeeze until there was no more breath inside his lungs. He could punch his face and break bones enough to cause irreparable damages.

Instead of doing any of that, Miklan grabbed his butt in both hands and pulled him ever closer. The front of their trousers brushed together, making Felix shiver with want. Then, Miklan shifted until his hands were under his thighs and hefted him off the floor effortlessly. Out of reflex, Felix wrapped his legs around his waist and—

And he laughed. “You bastard.”

Miklan attacked the skin of his throat, biting and licking at the tender skin. “What? I wanted to see if what you said on the training yard was true,” he said, his breath hot. He snorted with amusement. “Turns out it is.”

The way Miklan could hold him up pinned against the wall was intoxicating. The casual show of strength made Felix light-headed. He didn’t care that the bricks of the wall bit hard into his back or that the position wasn’t that comfortable. Right now, all he could care about were the teeth biting into the skin of his neck, the big hands grasping his butt, and the hardness pressing against him.

The sound of footsteps coming down the corridor made them pause. As one, they froze, cocking an ear.

When Miklan made no move to put him down despite the footsteps coming closer, Felix punched his shoulder. “Put me down, bastard!” he hissed.

“Ah?” Miklan leaned in closer, his lips brushing Felix’s. He was entirely too smug as he said: “Afraid someone will see you for the little slut you are?”

Whoever was coming was nearly at the bend of the corridor. Cold sweat broke on Felix’s forehead—he wouldn’t have cared being caught in this position with anyone else. He punched Miklan’s shoulder again, wriggling to be put down.

Finally, at the last second, Miklan put him down. He seized him by the scruff of his tunic, opened the door of his bedroom, and marched him in. The door closed as the footsteps walked by—Felix barely had time for a relieved sigh that Miklan was kissing him again. This time, it was against the heavy wood of the door that his back was pressed.

“You’re an ass,” Felix managed to breathe. “I hate you so fucking much.” He reached down, shoving his hand into Miklan’s trousers to seize him in a firm grasp. He looked up when Miklan gasped, smirking. “Hard already, eh?”

Miklan rested both his hands on either side of Felix’s head, effectively caging him in. He chuckled, breaths heavy. His voice was rough when he said: “Hard since I whacked your ass with the sword that afternoon.”

Felix couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. He moved his hand up and down slowly, relishing the way Miklan did his best to hide how good it felt—his jaw was locked, his smile trembling, sweat beading on his forehead and his cheeks turning red. “Is that so? Poor you, to get excited over something this small. And to think you’ve been suffering since then.”

“Yeah, watching you pine for my loser of a brother is indeed cause for suffering.”

Felix tightened his grip warningly, making the other man hiss. He tilted his head up, his lips brushing Miklan’s jaw. “Don’t lie. You’re just angry I didn’t relieve you of your problem right away. Were you actually hoping to ambush me tonight, or is it just luck?”

“You know what, Fraldarius? I much prefer when you use your mouth to suck me off.”

“I think I much prefer sucking you off than talking to you, actually.”

To prove his point, Felix slid down to his knees in one smooth motion. He found himself face to face with Miklan’s cotch. The front of his trousers was obliviously tented, his erection unable to be denied. Licking his lips, knowing Miklan was watching every movement, he slowly undid the laces. He pulled them one by one, letting his fingers brush the bulge in feather-like touches that had to be thoroughly unsatisfactory. Every second, he kept expecting Miklan to seize his hair and shove his dick into his mouth the way he’d done the last time. Instead, he kept his hands firmly pressed into the wall, surprisingly patient with Felix’s teasing. Judging by the strained expression on his face, he was enjoying the small torture.

Once the laces were properly undone, Felix tugged Miklan’s trousers lower down his hips to free his hard length. Although he’d seen it before, Felix couldn’t stop himself from being amazed at the sheer size of it. It seemed hardly possible that he’d been able to take it with how little he’d been prepared. His own dick in his trousers twitched in interest. His whole body was flushed with heat and want. He remembered how it had _nearly_ felt good last time, how he had been one good push from pleasure instead of pain. He thought that, if he played his cards right tonight, he could make it good. There was something in Miklan’s attitude that told him he’d be more amenable at sharing the pleasure.

He pushed down his own simmering lust to focus on the task at hand. He glanced up at the Miklan’s face through his eyelashes, playing coy, letting the tip of his dick rest against his bottom lip. Miklan’s eyes were dark wells of desire. His fingernails dug into the bricks of the wall. His face was flushed and his grin looked dangerous. Felix was trying his patience, he knew it. He didn’t care. He gave the dick an experimental lick, trying to remember exactly how Miklan liked it. He kept the touches light at first, trailing his lips and tongue here and there, sucking on the tip once in a while. His hand held the base tightly in a grip that had to be nearly painful. The way Miklan’s breath caught was mesmerizing. Felix didn’t have to look up at him to know this was torture. He enjoyed the little bit of power this gave him.

Finally, when he sensed that Miklan was about to lose patience, he took the whole length into his mouth without warning. Miklan cursed loudly. His hips jerked forward and Felix nearly gagged as the dick was shoved down his throat. For a second, he couldn’t breathe or swallow. He pulled back a little, slapping Miklan’s thigh in warning. Then, once he’d inhaled just enough, he swallowed around the length and let it slide down his throat as far as it would get. It was a hot, hard weight on his tongue. Making sure his teeth didn’t scrape the sensitive flesh forced his jaw opened uncomfortably wide.

He relished it. Each thrust made him want more. He had to make an actual effort not to touch himself. He was so hard it was getting painful.

“You like that, little slut?” Miklan asked breathlessly, as if he’d read Felix’s thoughts.

Felix glanced up at him and gave a suck that made Miklan shiver. His hands finally left the wall to cradle Felix’s jaw, not quite holding him in place, but more to angle his head better. He allowed it, eyelashes fluttering, moaning when a particularly hard shove sent Miklan’s dick further down his throat. He could no longer inhale properly, only catch a breath here and there. His head spun. Spit dribbled down his chin from the corners of his mouth.

Unable to stop himself further, Felix reached down to palm himself through his trousers. His hips bucked at his touch and he moaned again. It was barely adequate—it seemed to make things worse rather than better.

Fingers tangled in his hair and yanked him backwards. Miklan’s dick slid out of his mouth and Felix found himself gasping for breath.

“You’re enjoying yourself a bit too much,” Miklan said nastily. “Who would have thought sucking dick would get you off like that?”

Felix panted, licked his lips, and dried his chin with the back of his hand. Only then did he deign look up, tilting his head up despite the pull on his hair. Whatever picture of debauchery he presented seemed to please Miklan—his eyes, already intent and hot, blazed. Felix said, voice rough: “You should try it. You might like it too.”

“Nice try, Fraldarius. I’ll leave that to your expert self.” Miklan yanked on Felix’s hair. “Come on, get up.”

“Already? You can finish in my mouth, I don’t care.”

The grin that spread on Miklan’s mouth was cruel. “Oh? You don’t want me to fuck you? Are you scared? Did it hurt too much last time?”

Annoyance prickled at Felix, barely smothered by the lust coursing through his veins. “It did hurt,” he admitted, getting to his feet. He wrapped his arms around Miklan’s waist, pulling them tight together until there wasn’t any room left between their bodies. “A whole fucking lot. But I expected it. Did you truly think I would expect anything else coming from you?” Miklan let go of his hair to grab his butt with both hands, making Felix almost _purr_ in satisfaction. He rested his chin on Miklan’s chest, gazing up at him, speaking in a low voice. “I planned for this, Miklan. And, like the bully you are, you behaved exactly in the way I predicted.”

Watching emotions play across Miklan’s face was as fascinating as it was terrifying. First, surprise made his eyes wide. Then, annoyance veering close to anger pulled his lips down in a displeased frown. He probably didn’t like being called a bully although he had to be self-aware enough to know this was what he was. He also certainly didn’t appreciate being told he behaved in a way that was expected of him.

Rather than letting him get angry, Felix added: “That’s a good thing. I hate surprises.”

Miklan seemed to decide this was harmless banter. He chuckled, and smacked Felix’s ass on exactly the same spot where his sword had struck him earlier. “Where do you get that spunk from, brat? I’ve yet to meet a Fraldarius that isn’t proper, correct, and boring as rain.”

“You mean Glenn?” Felix asked testily. The name of his brother put a damper on his mood. He didn’t want to think about Glenn, not right now.

“Glenn, your father, your mother, even your bloody grandfather, they were all so damn dull.” Miklan’s finger traced the line of Felix’s cheek. Then, he smirked. “You’re not nearly as hot as your brother, but somehow, you being a little spitfire makes up for that.”

Felix had no idea how to react to that. Was it praise? It honestly sounded more like a backhanded compliment, surely the only kind Miklan could give. He decided to take it as a compliment. He soaked the words up, feeling them rest on an aching part of his soul that he had been trying to ignore lately. He was a little ashamed of how starved for praise he was.

“Well,” Felix began, going for a syrupy tone. “You might not be as handsome as Sylvain, but your big dick makes up for that.”

Miklan laughed. He squeezed Felix’s butt appreciatively. “Good answer.” He leaned in until he could nuzzle Felix’s temple, his lips trailing over the fine skin there. “We’re better matched, you and I, anyway.”

Felix’s breath hitched. The light touch made his flesh break out in goosebumps. He shivered, wondering why this felt this good. Miklan’s hands roamed over his body, squeezing and pinching, looking almost as if he were taking his measurements. The way his fingers almost touched when he wrapped his hands around Felix’s waist tore an oath out of him.

“The discarded, useless brothers should stick together,” Miklan concluded before kissing him.

Whatever hint of gentleness that had been in Miklan’s behaviour suddenly disappeared. He kissed Felix hungrily, all tongue and teeth and no breath left between them. The fire roaring in Felix’s belly redoubled, growing hotter with each passing second. His fingers scrambled for the other man, tearing at his clothes while Miklan did the same with him. They more or less stumbled their way towards the bed. Articles of clothing fell to the floor to mark their passage.

Unlike the last time in Miklan’s bedchamber, candles had been lit here. Felix could easily see the other man’s body as it was revealed with each falling piece of garment. He didn’t have time to gawk, only catch glimpses of firm muscles, scars aplenty, and reddish-orange hairs. Miklan wasn’t shy about any of that. He didn’t seem to mind the blemishes—in fact, he didn’t seem to care for his appearance at all. His hair was tangled and his chin bristly, and he still smelled of sweat from their time on the training yard. His fingernails were grimy and uneven. He had a bandage wrapped around his thigh that looked days old, a brownish stain on it indicating dried blood.

This contrasted so much with Sylvain that Felix never could have imagined him in his brother’s place.

He shook his head, refusing to think about the younger Gautier sibling. He had no blood left to fuel his brain, anyway. It had all rushed south, leaving his body a tingling, hot mess. He went along easily with what Miklan did, letting himself be pushed on top of the bed, wrapping his arms around Miklan’s neck the second he was on him again. They pushed their hips together, the friction barely enough to alleviate any of the building pressure. Felix felt frantic with it. He clawed at Miklan, dragging his fingernails down his back, trying to tug him closer to him. He was so out of breath that kissing became nearly impossible, yet his lips chased after Miklan’s when he straightened.

Miklan sat back on his haunches between Felix’s spread thighs, looking down at him with such hunger that Felix felt more like prey than like lover. He didn’t cower, didn’t try hiding himself from that burning gaze. He gloried in it—this was what being seen had to feel like. He was a prey that was willing to be there, that was waiting impatiently to be devoured. While Miklan watched, he undid his ponytail before settling back down into the pillows comfortably. His heart beat a bad tempo inside his chest.

Miklan reached out to wrap his hand around Felix’s neck, his thumb pressing slightly into his pulse point. No doubt he could feel Felix’s pulse hammering quickly like that of a cornered rabbit. He didn’t particularly like being held like that, but he kept quiet. Miklan wasn’t a man who would be hurried or told how to behave.

“Looks painful,” Miklan commented, chucking Felix under the chin where the skin was raw. His hand then returned to his neck with the threat of a squeeze, before sliding down slowly, brushing past his collarbones to settle over the left side of his ribcage. On top of the bruises, leftovers from their spar that afternoon. He applied just enough pressure to make Felix hiss. “Anything broken?”

Felix offered him a crooked grin. “Press harder and you’ll find out.” He hissed again when Miklan did just that. He had to resist the urge to twitch away. “Bastard.”

“I honestly would have been disappointed if you’d broken a few ribs simply by falling to the ground,” Miklan commented. His face grew dark as he added in a mutter: “You have a major Crest. You’re supposed to be tougher than that.”

For half a second, real fear gripped Felix. The pressure against his ribcage turned truly painful. Instead of panicking, he hit Miklan’s side with his knee and barked: “Enough. I don’t care if you have a Crest or not. Just fuck me.”

Miklan’s eyes snapped back to his face. He snorted. “I ought to spank you for trying to boss me around, little Fraldarius.”

“Why?” Felix tilted his chin up, looking down his nose at the other man. “I’d like it.”

This time, the bark of laughter coming from Miklan was genuine. He leaned over Felix, looming over him, taking all his field of vision. “That’s what you like to think.” He shook his head. “Anyway, you have oil? If you don’t, I’ll send you to the kitchens naked to fetch some.”

Without breaking eye contact, Felix rummaged under his pillow for the vial of oil he’d long ago pilfered from his father’s kitchens. Miklan looked slightly impressed that he indeed had it nearby, ready to be used. “I wouldn’t mind going to the kitchens naked,” Felix said. He pulled the vial from under his pillow and shook it to make the liquid slosh against the greenish sides of the bottle. “I might find someone more amenable to fuck me rather than to talk. One of your friends might know when to shut it.”

“One of my friends, eh?” Miklan snatched the vial from his hand—it seemed tiny in his big paw. “You’re right, a couple might be amenable to tear you apart. I cannot promise you’d like that, however.” He uncorked the vial and poured some of the viscous liquid on two of his fingers. Felix’s eyes followed greedily, which made Miklan grin. “Or you might, given how much of a needy little slut you seem to be.” When Felix made to roll to be on in his hands and knees, Miklan stopped him with a firm palm on his hip. “Stay like that.”

“What? Why?”

Miklan put the bottle of oil to one side and pushed open Felix’s legs wider. “Because I want to see your face. I bet you look pretty when you cry.”

A flush crept up Felix’s cheeks both at the words and at the suggestion. For some reason, having sex face to face seemed far too intimate. He knew Miklan would be studying each minute changes in his expression, would be analyzing every twitch and frown to later use it against him.

But Miklan’s knowing grin stopped him from protesting. Miklan was looking at him like he suspected Felix had reservations about this and was waiting eagerly for him to speak them out loud. He was yet posing another challenge.

Instead of answering vocally, Felix merely rearranged the pillows under his head to be more comfortable. He wasn’t afraid of what Miklan would see on his face. He’d deal with it later. Right now anyway, it was getting too hard to think logically. He just wanted to get on with it.

Sensing that there would be no reply, Miklan chuckled. “Very well,” he said.

His eyes left Felix’s face to focus on what he was doing. He kept one hand on Felix’s knee while he slowly inserted a finger inside his hole. Felix managed not to tense at the intrusion. He’d known it was coming and, after the first few seconds of slight pain, it became easier. He found it easy to relax into the touch, to let his body welcome it even. What he found harder was to keep his voice low. He bit his lip when a second finger was inserted, trying not to moan too loudly. Watching Miklan work was nearly as arousing as what he was doing. His features were pulled into a concentrated frown. His eyes were intent. His muscles were bunched, like he was having a hard time controlling himself. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple even though it wasn’t particularly hot in the room.

When the fingers brushed that spot inside of him, Felix cried out in startled pleasure. The world flashed white. His hips rocked into the motion, chasing that brief second of ecstasy again. He clamped his hand over his mouth, panting hard, whining low in his throat. It came again and again, until everything dissolved into that miasma of burning hotness. He forgot about keeping his voice low, forgot _who_ was making him feel this good. He threw his head back into the pillows, muscles quivering, heels digging into the blanket. Miklan held him down as he fucked him with his fingers, two, then three, the jabs sharp and perfectly aimed.

Felix nearly came from it. Pleasure crested higher and higher, reaching that point where something had to give. He could feel that, that familiar pressure low in his belly, similar yet so different from what he was used to.

And then it stopped.

The fingers were pulled back. The hand pinning his leg to the mattress left him. He was left there, suspended over the precipice he’d yearned to thrown himself into. Panting hard, heart beating too fast, every limb quivering with the aborted ecstasy, Felix opened eyes he hadn’t realised he’d closed. “Bastard,” he managed to mumble.

“What? You should be thanking me. I thought you wanted to come on my dick?” Of course Miklan would be fucking smug about it. There was a shit-eating grin on his face as he poured oil over his dick while Felix watched with rapt attention. He gave himself a few lazy pumps, hissing slightly. “I hope you’ll be better than last time.”

Felix could hardly bear to watch. He knew he could take it, had done it a few days ago, but holy shit, it was almost scary how big Miklan’s dick was. He wanted it _inside_ right now, but Miklan was being a bastard and taking his sweet time, knowing Felix was staring. Felix had no idea how to play it cool or pretend he wasn’t in a hurry to get started. He could feel his self-control ebbing with each passing second. He feared that, should Miklan make him wait longer, he’d _beg_ for it. Miklan would like that that, he suspected, which was one more reason to withhold it. He bit his lip instead. His body was burning up with anticipation. He was so strung up he feared he would come the second Miklan fucked into him. His dick was already leaking, one touch away from completion. Felix fisted his hands into the bedsheets below him, refusing to touch himself, refusing to give Miklan that satisfaction.

Finally, Miklan seemed ready to start. He pushed open Felix’s legs again, slotting himself between them snugly. Felix shivered bodily—he bit down on a moan, ashamed of how excited he was. Using one hand, Miklan guided himself inside slowly.

The push was nothing more than simple pressure at first. Felix forced himself to relax, to allow it to happen. Pressure increased until the tip of Miklan’s dick breached him. Already this felt like _a lot_ , far more than the fingers had been. Felix gritted his teeth through the minor pain, telling himself it was only in passing. Miklan panted hard above him, muscles bunching, messy red hair falling into his face to obscure his expression. He paused a moment to catch his breath.

When his hands seized Felix’s hips, he knew it was coming. Within the next breath, Miklan shoved into him in one hard thrust that sent a burning pain up Felix’s spine. He cried out, brain fuzzing, senses going haywire. It seemed like everything turned into a red miasma of pain, of _too much_. He couldn’t take it—it was too much—

Miklan moved, pulling back slowly before thrusting back in.

After the third or fourth time, pain dissolved, pushed back by the hint of that pleasure he’d felt before. Felix clutched at it, moving his hips, trying to force Miklan into that spot that had rocked his world. He refused to let it go, refused to focus on anything but it. It came again, as surprising as it was welcomed. His whole body seized with it and his cry was one of pleasure rather than pain.

Everything faded around him except for this. Felix grabbed at Miklan, dragging his fingernails down his back, trying to anchor himself. Every thrust made stars explode behind his closed eyelids. He couldn’t think, couldn’t form coherent thoughts or words. The only thing that mattered now was chasing that high. He wrapped his legs around Miklan’s hips, urging him on. He was talking without being sure what he said. Words or moans or grunts or whatever kept slipping from his lips unchecked.

A sharp knock at the door pierced the veil.

Felix’s eyes snapped open in horror. He hurriedly put a hand over his mouth, realising he hadn’t been trying to muffle his cries. Above him, Miklan had an amused smile on his reddened face. He stopped thrusting, cocking an ear, not looking at all worried that someone might have overheard them. Of course the bastard wouldn’t worry—they were in Felix’s room, nobody would suspect him of being here. His dick twitched inside Felix, making him bite his finger.

“Felix?” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door. “Fe, you there?”

Sylvain.

Felix’s first reaction was to push Miklan off him. His intention was to—to what? Dress hurriedly? Hide Miklan in the wardrobe or under the bed? Act nonchalantly while trying to ignore how hard he was? He had no idea what to do, what to say. He couldn’t think straight. He pushed at Miklan’s chest half-heartedly, but Miklan refused to budge. The grin on his face was terrible, mocking, wicked.

“Fe?” came Sylvain’s voice again, a tad worried.

Instead of moving away like any sane person would do, Miklan leaned over Felix until he could murmur into his ear: “You should say something. What if he tries walking in?”

The idea made the blood freeze in Felix’s veins. He opened his mouth to tell Sylvain to go away. Instead, what came out was a loud moan because Miklan chose that exact moment to thrust into him. Felix slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes going wide in horror. Another thrust, slow and hard and _aimed_ perfectly at that spot inside of him made him shiver. His back arched and his vision turned white around the edges. He had just enough brain power to think of biting his fingers to stifle a moan. The bed creaked noisily after another particularly sharp thrust. The sound of flesh hitting flesh seemed to reverberate everywhere.

And still Miklan kept at it, thrusting into him slowly, dragging it, making it impossible to control his voice. Felix trembled with the strain of being quiet. He was hyperaware of Sylvain’s presence on the other side of the door. He couldn’t not hear, surely he had to hear everything that was going on inside Felix’s room.

“Go away!” was all Felix managed to shout at Sylvain before the breath was stolen from his lungs by another well-aimed thrust.

Miklan was doing it on purpose, making sure to hit that spot that made him moan each time. Felix tried pushing him off him to no avail. He had no strength left. He could feel himself getting nearer to his finish, pushed inexorably towards it by Miklan’s relentless efforts. Somehow, trying to stop it made it better. Miklan was making sure to make it good, to make it so Felix was losing his head.

He sobbed out a half-strangled moan.

His orgasm hit him like a punch to the face. One second he was still reaching for it, the next, it was there. Pleasure overflowed and that coil of lust inside his belly snapped. It hurt nearly as much as it was good, like it was forcedly wrenched out of him. And it didn’t stop. Wave upon wave crashed into him, sweeping him along, prolonging the pleasurable agony until he felt he would die from it.

Whatever strength was left in him faltered. His body went slack. He slumped back against the mattress, panting, unable to catch a full breath. His skin tingled everywhere. His limbs twitched.

Miklan hadn’t finished yet. Felix could still feel him heavy and hard inside him, his thrusts turning messy. There was no more coordination to them. Felix opened his eyes, dazed, scarcely able to think. His oversensitive body trembled under the relentless assaults. He could hardly meet them, could only lie there and take it and groan at the fizzle of lust they awoke anew inside his blood. His own fingers were still between his teeth, but they did little to hide the moans that kept being punched out of him.

“What’s wrong, little Fraldarius?” Miklan taunted, breath hot where it ghosted over Felix’s ear. He kept his voice low. “Afraid my brother might hear? If he hasn’t already, he’s deaf.”

Miklan seemed to take immense pleasure from this. His slurred words made little sense to Felix’s overwrought mind. He made a pathetic sound at the back of his throat, something between a moan and a groan. It was becoming too much, it was starting to hurt. And still Miklan went on, labouring on top of him, panting hard, chasing his own release with single-minded doggedness. His harsh grip on Felix’s hips would leave bruises. They would blossom on top of those he’d already left there a few days ago.

Despite feeling overcome, he wanted more. More of that heat, of that building pressure, of that liberating explosion of pent up feelings that came with it. He wrapped his arms around Miklan’s neck and pulled him in, too far gone to realise what he was doing. He was getting aroused again, could probably come a second time without too much effort. His face was wet and his cheeks burned and his nerves were alive.

When Miklan came, Felix followed suit with a strangled cry. The last few thrusts as Miklan emptied himself inside him were shallow and clumsy. Felix shivered bodily at the feeling of seed filling him hotly.

He slumped back against his pillows and pressed his hands into his face. The air smelled of their mingled sweat and sex, and of the tallow candles that were nearly burned out. It was too hot. Every inch of his body was alive the way he could achieve only on the training yard. The buzzing in his ears receded somewhat.

“Fucking hell, Fraldarius,” Miklan muttered, out of breath. He nuzzled Felix’s jaw, leaving little biting kisses over the skin there. He gave a tentative last thrust that made them both shiver. “That was hot.”

Felix didn’t know if it was hot. He turned his head to give access to his neck to Miklan and to stare towards the door. He couldn’t hear anything coming from the corridor. Had Sylvain gone? How long ago was it that he had knocked? Two minutes? Five? Had he heard Felix shouting at him to go away? Would he have done so if he had heard? The fact that Felix didn’t know made something throb dully inside him.

“That’s quite enough,” Felix snapped. He pushed at Miklan’s shoulders. “Get off me.”

Miklan chuckled. He deposited a bruising kiss to Felix’s lips, then slapped his thigh. “All right, all right,” he said with a laugh. He pulled back, wincing a little. “I made a mess of you down there again. You’ll be feeling this one for days.”

The sensation of Miklan pulling back was both good and bad. Felix felt odd afterwards, kind of empty. He wished Miklan would just go rather than kneel there on the mattress and watch him like a hawk. Felix felt pinned by those sharp eyes. He felt as if he had a sort of test to pass without knowing what it was. Did Miklan expect him to burst into tears? Or to be grateful?

“That was nice,” Felix commented, going for his best haughty voice. “You may go, now.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Miklan’s face darkened. Faster than Felix could have believed possible, Miklan seized him around the neck and squeezed just a little. He loomed over him, big and angry and dangerous. Staring up at him, Felix was suddenly reminded of _who_ exactly he’d been fooling around with. Miklan wasn’t a nice person. Miklan didn’t indulge others.

If Felix showed that he was afraid, Miklan would break him. He could tell it by the taut way he held himself in check, like there was only one tiny shred holding him back from truly hurting Felix.

Mercifully, Felix’s brain read the danger in the situation and pulled itself out of its pleasure-filled miasma. He looked Miklan straight in the eye, refusing to show anything resembling fear. He stared him down, tilting his chin up slightly. He made an effort to keep his body utterly relaxed and prayed Miklan couldn’t feel how fast his pulse was beating at his throat.

“Don’t treat me like a fucking servant,” Miklan barked. He gave one last squeeze that brought tears to Felix’s eyes before letting him go entirely. “You think too highly of yourself, you little slut.”

Felix discretely cleared his throat. He sat up to put some distance between the two of them. “I suppose I do,” he conceded. Whatever had been between them a few minutes ago had vanished. It made Felix feel like he was sitting across from a stranger. “I apologize.” The words tasted bad at the back of his tongue, like defeat and surrender. Still, he could be gracious enough to admit that he’d made a mistake.

Miklan surveyed him suspiciously. The flush had receded from his cheeks. “Whatever.” He got up and put his clothes on.

“What are you doing?” Felix asked, remembering in a panic that Sylvain had knocked at the door earlier. What if he were still in the corridor? “Make sure there’s nobody outside who could see you leaving.”

Miklan snorted as he buckled his sword belt at his waist. “What? Afraid Sylvain might ask what I was doing here? Afraid I might tell him the truth?”

What could Felix answer to that? Afraid wasn’t the right word to start with. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Sylvain to know he’d bedded someone, it was that he didn’t want Sylvain to know _who_ he had bedded. By the goddess, Sylvain would feel betrayed by this. He wouldn’t understand Felix’s reasons. The thing was, he wouldn’t say so, but Felix would be able to read the hurt in his eyes.

A lump form in his throat, making it difficult to swallow. Something closely resembling shame bubbled up from deep inside him. It made him reach for the nearest blanket and wrap it around his shoulders for modesty. He got up, wincing at the strain the movement put on every part of his body. Miklan watched him pitilessly. His expression was carefully blank—it terrified Felix. He wished Miklan would taunt him or make fun of him.

“He wouldn’t understand,” Felix said. He clutched the blanket tighter against him. He stood there in front of Miklan and looked up at him earnestly. “He’s too naïve for that.”

Miklan snorted. “No, you’re right, he wouldn’t understand why you want to piss your daddy off that bad. He idolizes Duke Rodrigue too much to realise he’s nearly as much of a bastard as our own father.”

“That’s the gist of it.”

Miklan considered him for a moment before heaving a sigh. “Whatever. Don’t get your panties in a twist, Sylvain’s gone, I heard his departing footsteps. If you start bawling, I swear I’ll slap you hard enough to break your pretty face.”

Felix dared hope this was a sort of truce. It had to be—he was too drained of energy for more verbal sparring. “Good. Thanks, I guess.”

“Take it as payment for good services.”

“Payment? That’s crass, even coming from you, Miklan.”

Miklan laughed. He grinned as he added: “Well, if you completely fall out with your father and he disowns you, come find me. I’ll certainly always have need of a good bedmate.”

“I’d bet my right hand that you’ll be disowned first, what with the way you act.”

“My father will always need someone he can unleash on his enemies who he knows won’t show mercy. Sylvain’s there to breed little heirs, I’m there to break heads. As for you, you like guys so you won’t breed any little Fraldariuses, and you’re way too tender-hearted to break heads. Nah, I bet your father will choose one of your cousins as heir.”

“I’m not tender-hearted, what the fuck!”

“After seeing you mooning after Sylvain, allow me to doubt that, brat.” Miklan added with an amused smirk: “The second you tell your father you slept with me willingly, you’re out the door. He hates me enough to spit. He won’t forgive you this. When that times come, you’ll know where to find me.”

And, before Felix had time to retort, Miklan wrapped a fist in his hair, jerked him forward roughly, and kissed him. He patted Felix’s butt and marched out of the room without a look behind, leaving Felix to stand there thoroughly unsettled by the exchange.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I'm so sorry I couldn't update over the weekend as I had promised! Last week has been hectic, which means I didn't get enough time to finish this chapter. You are lucky however, because I realised the chapter is way too long, so I decided to split it in two. It means there will now be 6 chapters to this fic! (That was supposed to be a one-shot!)
> 
> So, no sex in this chapter! Felix does pine after Sylvain quite a lot and he gets to spend a bit of time with Miklan. Be advised that there are mentions of blood and injuries, so I advise you be cautious if this is not your cup of tea.
> 
> Otherwise, thank you so much for the comments and the kudos! I love them all!
> 
> **BTW, the next chapter won't be up for a couple of weeks at least. I'm off work and I don't know when I'll have the time to write! Thank you for sticking with me nonetheless!**
> 
> Enjoy!

What if Miklan were right?

The words danced around Felix’s head in endless circles. They haunted his waking hours and whispered in his dreams. He didn’t catch a minute of sleep that night. He lied there on his bed, thinking, worrying, afraid he’d made some irreparable mistake. It had never occurred to him that his father might be cross enough with him to _disinherit_ him. All he had wanted was to make him angry. He hadn’t thought about what might happen should his father be angry _enough_.

At dawn, Felix got up. Whatever bliss he had felt the previous night had vanished the second Miklan had walked out of this room. That morning, he felt wretched. He was exhausted and moody. As if sensing his terrible mood, the weather decided to copy it. The sky was grey and overcast, promising rain. The air had that still quality that made it heavy as a wet blanket. There would be a thunderstorm later in the day.

Felix had no idea what to do with himself. He got dressed out of habit and, when he stood in front of the vanity mirror, he winced. Since this was summer, the collar of his tunic was pretty short. It left most of his neck bare and seemed to put emphasis on the bite marks that littered it. He tilted his head left and right, surveying the mess. Only a child or a complete idiot could mistake those for mere bruises. They were tender to the touch. He rummaged through the clothes he’d bought and mercifully found a tunic with a higher collar. Most of the bite marks were hidden under the white fabric, leaving only one that wasn’t too dark.

Nothing else in his appearance showed what had happened last night. His lips were perhaps a tad more swollen than usual, but he could say it was because he’d bitten them when he’d fallen on the training yard yesterday. He doubted anyone would ask. He was presentable, it was all that mattered.

He could leave his room, could seek some breakfast. He was famished after not eating his whole supper. His stomach had been growling for a while now. He thought of the breakfast rolls awaiting in the dining hall downstairs, of freshly-churned butter and hard bread and porridge. His mouth watered.

He turned towards the door, steps faltering. He was pretty sure Sylvain would be up already—his friend was an early riser despite usually going to bed late. Felix had no idea how he would react if they met at the table. He wasn’t sure what Sylvain had heard at his door, if anything. Would Sylvain ask? If he did, what should Felix answer? He sucked at lying—Sylvain would surely see through any lie and be sad that Felix didn’t trust him.

He rubbed his hands over his face. Fucking hell, this was such a mess. He was such a damn idiot. He hadn’t been thinking. Sleeping with Miklan _once_ had been stupid, sleeping with him _twice_ had been downright crazy. He shouldn’t make decisions when he was angry.

But he had, and he had to live with the consequences.

Some part of him didn’t regret it. It had been, all things considered, fun.

The _smart_ part of him knew it had been dumb, however. He hadn’t sought Miklan out for the right reasons. He’d done it to hurt his father, who truly deserved it. The trouble was that, should this get out, his father wouldn’t be the only one hurt. Sylvain would be affected too, probably far more than Lord Rodrigue. Felix had considered that, of course, but apparently not enough. He’d only thought of the immediate benefits. He hadn’t considered the long-term problems this might create.

The only thing Felix could do was mitigate the damages. He had to make sure Sylvain never learned of what had transpired between his brother and his best friend. Felix didn’t think Miklan would go out of his way to tell him—this wasn’t how he preferred to hurt Sylvain. He was too much of a brute to go for psychological pain when physical pain was much easier to inflict. Furthermore, he had to know that Sylvain wouldn’t believe him and that Felix would never admit he was right.

No, the real danger was Sylvain discovering this on his own. If he had walked in on them yesterday, nothing Felix could have said would have made him doubt his own eyes. Short of telling him Miklan was raping him, Sylvain would have known they were willingly together. He would have known Felix had taken his cruel big brother to bed without being coerced. This would be a betrayal. Sylvain would think Felix didn’t care for what he’d gone through at the hand of Miklan while it was the opposite.

The solution was simple: if Sylvain hadn’t learned of Felix’s and Miklan’s tryst last night, Felix had to put a stop to it before he did. He couldn’t risk his friendship with Sylvain only for the sake of angering his father.

Hell, he couldn’t even hide behind this excuse anymore because he’d _never_ tell his father.

Unless he was goaded. Felix didn’t know how he might react should his father goad him enough for him to spit out the truth. Rage blinded him, made him stupid. He might tell his father and to hell with the consequences. To hell with being disinherited.

One step at the time.

Felix took in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and left the protection of his bedroom.

Around him, the ancient citadel was slowly waking up. Servants were already up and about, going on with their business as they did every day. Dressed in dark grey, they went about their tasks unobtrusively like ghosts.

Felix didn’t pay them any mind as he made his way towards the dining hall. Already, he could hear the clatter of cutlery and the buzzing of voices as people broke their fast. He stopped by the open double doors, peering inside. Immediately, his eye caught a glimpse of a bright orange mop. Felix’s heart stuttered at the sight of Sylvain. He was seated on his own, eating from a bowl of porridge. His hair was messy from sleep and he looked only half-awake. There was something profoundly endearing in the way he slumped on the bench, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to sit straight.

Gathering his courage, Felix made his way towards his friend. His blood beat so hard in his ears that he could barely hear the din of conversations.

Sylvain perked up the second he spotted Felix. “Hey, Fe!”

Cautiously, Felix sat on the bench on the other side of the table. “Good morning.” He sat with his back ramrod straight, ready to make a run for it.

“You okay? You look tense.”

“I’m sorry for yesterday,” Felix blurted out. He stared at the tabletop, heat creeping up his cheeks. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

“What? Oh, it’s fine! I shouldn’t have bothered you. You were tired.”

Felix peered at him from lowered lashes. “I was?”

“Well, yes? You took quite a beating from Miklan. You didn’t even see the healer. You must have been in pain.”

Felix’s treacherous mind immediately sifted Sylvain’s words for a second meaning. Had his tone been peculiar? Did he actually mean a _beating_ in the literal sense of the term, or was he edging towards something else? Felix shoved his hands between his knees to keep them from shaking too much. He hated this, hated this tension he couldn’t be sure wasn’t of his own making.

“You shouldn’t push yourself like that,” Sylvain continued. He ate another spoonful of porridge, frowning slightly. “You’ve got nothing to prove, Fe. Everybody knows you’re strong.”

Gradually, Felix allowed himself to relax. The muscles in his shoulders unknotted. He took a tentative breath. “I’m not strong. At least, not strong enough. I want to keep getting better.”

“You won’t get better by getting your arms broken by Miklan. He indulged you yesterday by going easy on you. Next time, he might not.” Sylvain offered a cheerful laugh that sounded terribly fake to Felix’s ears. “I know, that’s what he does with me!”

Suddenly, the smells of food permeating the air made Felix gag. Bile rose up his throat. That fake laugh, those words handed out as if they were a joke, they all served to remind Felix of _who_ exactly he’d been messing with. Miklan was a monster. He’d been hurting his little brother ever since he’d been old enough to walk. What was Felix thinking, flirting with such a bastard?

“I’d rather he breaks my arms then yours,” Felix said fervently.

“No, no, don’t say that. You’re my little brother, I have to protect you.”

Shit, not even seven in the morning and Felix’s heart already felt shredded into ribbons. _You’re my little brother_. Nothing more. He swallowed painfully. “Don’t be daft. I can protect myself well enough.” He hesitated then said: “But I won’t challenge Miklan again, if that’s what you want.” He could do that. Easily.

This chuckle sounded more natural, less forced. “Please, do that! I’m not sure I can stand seeing you being thrown to the ground by him too often!” Sylvain offered him a smile bright enough to rival the sun. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Don’t underestimate me, though,” Felix warned, pointing an accusing finger in his friend’s face. “I’m far from being weak.”

“That’s true, but you do tend to overestimate yourself,” Sylvain teased. “A great warrior is one who knows to choose his combats.”

“Humph, don’t start quoting long-dead generals. We aren’t in class.” Felix got up. “I know. Let me eat breakfast, and then _we_ can spar.”

“Fe! Do we have to?”

“We do! I have to have something to show when I return home, or my father will think I’ve spent the summer lazing about. Be a good _friend_ and help me improve, then.”

-

A couple of weeks passed without anything happening. Felix relaxed a little—Miklan was away on some errand for his father, which meant that they didn’t run into each other. Sylvain never mentioned that he might have heard something weird coming from Felix’s bedroom, which saved him from concocting an unconvincing lie. Things returned to a relative normal that Felix hadn’t known he’d been craving. For long stretches of time, he almost forgot that Glenn had died, that his friendship with Dimitri was ruined, and that his father hated him. Sinking into the routine of Gautier keep was easy, mingling with its easygoing inhabitants easier.

The only hard thing was spending time with Sylvain. Up until now, Felix had never known that a situation could be as sweet as it was painful. He’d had a crush on his friend for years, but it seemed to be only recently that his feelings remained on the surface long enough for him to be aware of them. Sylvain would be talking to him, and Felix would just stare at him, thinking how he’d give his left arm to kiss him. Or Sylvain would wrap an arm around his shoulders companionably, and Felix would consider leaning into him. Whatever Sylvain did in his presence, Felix just wanted to reach out for him. To do what, he wasn’t certain. Oh, sure, he’d love dragging his friend to bed, but it was more than that. He yearned for any tiny physical contact he could have—their arms brushing as they walked, their fingers touching as an object changed hands, drinking from the same water flask after training, or simply sitting side by side on the grass to watch the clouds running across the sky. It was all painful. It was all sweet.

It confused him so damn much. It was in those times that he particularly wished Dimitri were here. Felix caught himself thinking about his _old_ friend sometimes, wishing he were here, whishing things hadn’t soured between them. Sylvain received a letter from Dimitri that Felix refused to read or hear about. Whenever Sylvain mentioned him, Felix would grunt in distaste. Sylvain didn’t get angry when Felix said he blamed Dimitri from Glenn’s death, he merely looked _sad_ in a way that hurt like a physical blow to the heart.

Still, barring any mention of Glenn or Dimitri, Felix’s days took a turn for the best. He spent hours on the training yard with Sylvain and the other young knights. Whenever Sylvain wasn’t available to entertain him, Felix would read in the library or ride in the forest or try learning a new skill. He’d recently discovered that he liked archery for more than hunting. He applied himself to that new discipline, relishing the unfamiliar hurts it woke in his body. It was a nice distraction.

It wasn’t until a young squire started making eyes at him that Felix realised that what Miklan had told him after their first time was true. Hell, he hadn’t even remembered the words until he noticed the young man smiling at him hopefully.

Miklan had said something along the lines of _I’ll go to my grave happy knowing I ruined this for you forever_. Felix hadn’t given the words any credit at first, thinking Miklan was merely being his usual asshole self.

It was only then, with that boy clearly giving him bedroom eyes, that Felix finally understood.

Miklan had indeed ruined it for him.

Because Felix looked at the kid and his first thought was that he couldn’t measure up to Miklan.

The kid was, well, a _kid_. He had to be fourteen or fifteen, with the long limbs of someone who hadn’t finished growing up yet. He was taller than Felix, but lanky. His jaw was delicate without a hint of hair. There was little muscle to his frame. His shoulders were narrow and drooping. The way he looked at Felix with puppy admiration was downright embarrassing. Felix was pretty certain he’d never kissed anyone before, much less had sex.

Felix sent him running after sparring with him.

Once alone on the training yard, muscles aching from how hard he’d fought, panting, Felix shivered violently. Holy shit, what had that been about? He’d been cruel to the kid for the sole reason that he’d been physically lacking. It wasn’t the kid’s fault that he was mousy or half-grown. It wasn’t the kid’s fault that he’d looked so innocent.

It wasn’t the kid’s fault he couldn’t compare to Miklan.

“Fuck,” Felix muttered, rubbing his hands over his face.

Miklan had known this would happen. He’d been so disgustingly confident because he’d known he’d ruined this for Felix. How long would it take before Felix stopped looking for someone like Miklan in a partner? Sure, he’d always fancied tall, big blokes, but now he knew he also wanted someone irreverent, someone crass, someone who would fight him every inch of the way. He wanted someone confident in their skills, perhaps someone even a little cruel.

Felix glanced at the other squires going on about their business. It was almost supper time so training was about to end. Would he be willing to settle for one of them? Would he want to take one of them to bed? That one he’d fancied a while back, Wade or Wayne or whatever, suddenly appeared bland. His fighting technique was sloppy, his cocky manners looked phony. Hell, he even _looked_ young—Felix could tell at a look that he wasn’t nearly as confident as he pretended to be. He was only playing at being rough and tough.

Bloody hell.

-

“You look thoroughly dejected,” Sylvain commented at supper. He bumped their shoulders together, smiling. “What’s going on?”

Felix looked up from his half-eaten supper. His grip tightened on his eating knife. He wished he could tell Sylvain, if not the whole thing, at least a part of it. He wouldn’t know where to begin, however. How does one say ‘ _I think your brother ruined the appeal of any potential lover I might have’_ without revealing everything one wishes to keep hidden? He didn’t want to lie to Sylvain. Damn it, perhaps Sylvain could actually _help_ because he’d had so many lovers in the past.

“Nothing,” Felix grumbled. “Nothing you can help with,” he amended. He looked at Sylvain. “I’d tell you, otherwise.”

Sylvain didn’t look quite convinced. “Are you dreading going back home?”

Going back home. Felix hadn’t thought about it much. Summer was already waning—it never lasted long this far up north. He would have to start preparations to return to the Fraldarius territories soon before the roads became too dangerous. Autumn brought torrential rains that swelled the rivers up. Water would wash over the roads, rendering them impassable. Then, winter would settle in. The muddy roads would freeze over and would then be covered by snow. Weeks could go by that the Gautier territories became totally isolated from the rest of the continent. As a child, Felix had hated those times—he had feared that Sylvain would somehow die and that he’d learn of it only when the thaws began in spring.

It wasn’t what had been on Felix’s mind, but now that Sylvain was mentioning it, terror seized his heart. By the Goddess, yes, he was dreading going back home. He was dreading facing his father, was dreading returning to the monotony of days not accompanied by Glenn. He was dreading the pall that had settled over Fraldarius manor since Glenn’s death. He was dreading the pitying looks the servants threw his way and the sympathies others offered him. He was dreading walking by Glenn’s closed bedroom door, knowing he could never knock and be received by a warm smile. His father hadn’t touched this room. Nothing had been moved or removed. Felix had sneaked in once, only to be dismayed to find his brother’s clothes still in their wardrobe. It was as if Glenn had merely gone for a few weeks and would be back.

But he wouldn’t. His body lied somewhere in a bloody field, torn to pieces. The coffin they had put into the crypt had been empty. Glenn would never come back.

“Yes,” Felix admitted, shocked to hear his own watery voice.

Concerned, Sylvain immediately wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay, Fe. Come on, let’s go elsewhere.”

Felix barely noticed Sylvain tugging him out of the dining hall. The corridors blurred past, nearly empty at this hour.

The cool air of the outside brushed against his cheeks, bringing him back to the present. They were out of the keep and making their way towards a path that meandered in a small wood. The old trees grew close to one another, leaving little room for underbrush. It was good hunting grounds, the place where Felix had witnessed his first deer being shot. He’d cried at the sight of its blood, he remembered vaguely.

In the middle of the wood was a tiny lake. Its surface was smooth as glass and reflected the rising moon overhead. Despite the fact that there was little fish to be had in it, Felix, Sylvain, and Dimitri had spent hours fishing from the shore in their youth.

Sylvain sat on the rough sand and pulled Felix to sit him down beside him. Felix obeyed out of habit, feeling shaky. There was too much going on in his head. He shouldn’t have come here—he should have gone to the training yard where he could have hacked at a training dummy until his mind cleared.

“If you wish,” Sylvain began, evidently thinking as he talked, “I could ask to be made a knight. Then I could take you on as my squire. This way, you could live here with me.”

This wasn’t what Felix had expected at all. His eyes widened. “What? Don’t be daft, you cannot _ask_ to be knighted. You have to earn it. And you’re too young.”

“I’m sure Dimitri could convince his fa—” Sylvain’s words trailed off as he suddenly remembered Dimitri’s father had died. His uncle was on the throne now, a man far less amenable than King Lambert had been. “Crap.”

“Yeah, crap,” Felix echoed. Despite this, a shy part of himself warmed up at the suggestion. Sylvain had been ready to do this for him. He had been ready to take Felix on as squire, knowing he’d do a terrible job, just so he wouldn’t have to go back home. “Thanks, though,” he said honestly. He wrapped his arms around his bent legs and rested his chin on his knee. “It would have been nice.”

Sylvain laughed. “Yes, right? I could have ordered you around, telling you to bring me my armour and clean my sword and look after my horse!”

Felix pulled a face. “You would have been too easy on me, I’m sure.”

“You can’t ever be too easy on someone, Fe. I mean, I’ve seen knights beating their squire for making a mistake. I don’t see the point of it. That’s not how you teach someone something. That just instills fear.” Unconsciously, Sylvain rubbed the scar at his hairline—the scar he’d acquired when Miklan had pushed him down a well. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know,” Felix assured him immediately. “You’re not cruel. You’re not like him.”

A cloud passed over Sylvain’s face. He said in a strained voice: “It runs in the blood, they say.”

Ah, yes, Felix had heard this rumour spoken in hushed tones a few times. Quite a few people were convinced that cruelty ran in the Gautier blood, and that it wasn’t such a surprise that Miklan had turned into a monster. Gilles Gautier had never had a good reputation—genteel social circles preferred to keep him excluded as much as possible. He was rarely invited to social gatherings unless it would be an irredeemable breach not to. Felix knew that his own father tolerated the margrave the way someone tolerated an embarrassing family member.

“That’s not true,” Felix said fervently. “You’re the nicest person I know!”

Sylvain chuckled, then looked at him fondly. “Thanks, Fe.” He reached out to pat his hair. “What would I do without my little brother, eh?”

Again with that little brother bullshit. Felix refused to dwell on it for the moment. He pushed Sylvain’s hand away with an annoyed grunt. “You’d be in dire straits, that’s true.” He heaved a sigh and looked at the silvery surface of the pond. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

Sylvain remained quiet a moment before saying: “Yeah, it does. I’ll miss you, when you return home. I always do.”

“You could visit us, you know? I’m always the one who comes over.”

“Your father is too strict! We can’t do anything!”

Felix snorted. “Okay, yeah, I see your point.” He let himself fall on his back on the soft grass. The sky was clear. Millions of little dots were beginning to twinkle into existence. Around him, the birds had settled for the night. It was peaceful, with only the wind making the leaves shiver. Already, he could feel the slight chill of it. “I miss Glenn.”

The words fell between them softly, landing gently like a snowflake. Felix felt no urge to swallow them back up, no urge to demure or pretend this wasn’t what he’d meant. He needed to say this at least once. He needed to conjure Glenn’s ghost one more time before he let it rest.

Sylvain lied down beside him, close enough to share body heat. His voice came low and gravelly when he said: “So do I.”

Felix glanced at his friend out the corner of his eye. In the growing darkness, Sylvain’s profile was difficult to distinguish. The stars provided little light, and so Felix mostly guessed at his expression. “I think my father hates me.”

“Why do you say that?”

Felix fell for Sylvain now even deeper. Sylvain hadn’t said that his father didn’t hate him, hadn’t assured him that he was wrong or misreading the situation. He was asking _why_ , like there might be a genuine reason for Felix to think that. Miklan had been wrong.

“He said I should have died instead of Glenn.”

Sylvain’s breath hitched. He turned to look at Felix, eyes wide. “Did he say that?”

“Yes. We were arguing…”

“That doesn’t excuse it. Fe, I’m so sorry. I know it must be difficult on Lord Rodrigue, but he shouldn’t say stuff like that to you.”

Felix shrugged. “He preferred Glenn, that’s all.”

“Glenn was certainly more… biddable. Lord Rodrigue and he were close. I’m sorry.” And Sylvain sounded honestly sorry. The thing was, he must understand a bit of it. Sylvain was his father’s favourite. Because of his Crest, margrave Gautier would always prefer him over his other son.

“I’m sorry too,” Felix said, though he was sure why he was apologizing. Maybe it was because he had ruined the mood by being gloomy. Maybe it was because he was oversharing. Maybe he was apologizing for what Sylvain went through at the hand of his brother. Maybe he was being sorry for what he did with Miklan.

Sylvain chuckled then. He rolled on his side, threw his arm across Felix’s torso, and pulled him close. “Ah, what a pair we make!” he exclaimed. “Don’t worry, Fe! Soon, we’ll be old enough to make our own decisions! Our fathers cannot live forever!”

“That doesn’t sound like you to rejoice at the prospect of someone’s death,” Felix grumbled, face pressed into Sylvain’s chest. “And careful, you’re about to crush me!”

“I don’t rejoice at the prospect of their death,” Sylvain amended, slackening his grip on him. He grinned. “I’m just looking forward to the day when I have a say in my own life.” He heaved a sigh. “You know, I hate Miklan, but I kind of envy him too. He can do whatever he wants, can go wherever he likes, can behave however he sees fit. He doesn’t have to please anyone. He won’t have to marry someone he doesn’t even like to have heirs. He’s a jerk, but he’s a lucky jerk.”

Felix had no idea what to answer to that. He huddled closer to Sylvain, ready to pretend it was because he was cold if asked. “I don’t want to get married,” he said, thinking that Miklan was too dangerous a subject for the moment.

“You’ll have to. The Fraldarius clan needs heirs.”

“My cousins can marry.”

“You don’t want to get married to a pretty girl? Sure, that means you won’t be able to be with other pretty girls, but it’s better than nothing! Your father will certainly allow you to choose who you marry, at least!”

“I wish I were a girl.” Felix blurted out the words. He wanted to see how Sylvain would react to them. He almost wished Sylvain would ask, just so Felix could tell him the truth. He would tell it if prompted. He wouldn’t volunteer it otherwise, but he’d tell if asked.

Sylvain threw him a surprised look. “Why?”

Felix sat up abruptly, unable to look at Sylvain. He took a casual tone, like he was only joking: “If I’d been a girl, we could have gotten married, you and I.”

Sylvain burst into laughter. “What a weird notion! Fe, no, don’t be ridiculous! We wouldn’t have gotten married! You would have married Dimitri! Your father never would have allowed you to marry a good-for-nothing like me!”

Felix’s face burned. “Dimitri? Eww, never!” Humiliated because of Sylvain’s laughter, he jumped to his feet. “It’s a mercy I can’t marry you, anyway. You’re a jerk!”

“Fe?! What! Come back, Fe! I’m sorry!”

But Felix didn’t listen to him. He retraced his footsteps away from the pond, afraid he would combust with how hot his cheeks had gotten. How stupid he was, saying that to Sylvain. Of course the idiot wouldn’t understand.

Behind him, he heard Sylvain’s hurried steps. He caught up to him quickly, grabbing his arm. When Felix made to wrench himself free, Sylvain tightened his grip slightly. He forced Felix to stop his angry stomping and turned him towards him. “Fe, come on, don’t be angry. I’m not making fun of you. I understand what you meant.” He went for his best winsome smile. “I’d be a terrible husband, so you’re lucky you can’t marry me!” He winked. “But I’m sure you’d have been a pretty girl if you’d looked like your ma!”

Felix was torn between punching his silly face and forgiving him. “I’m not pretty.”

Sylvain cocked his head to the side, giving him an onceover. “Meh, for a boy, I think you are? Kind of? Cute, maybe?” He playfully tugged a strand of Felix’s hair. “Pretty hair that’s for sure!”

“At least it’s not _red_.”

Sylvain gasped and put a hand over his heart, looking like the wounded heroine in a bad play. “Felix Fraldarius! Are you making fun of my hair?”

“Meh, if the shoe fits.”

“You do know that poems have been written about the Gautier red hair, right?” Sylvain declared. He once again wrapped an arm around Felix’s shoulders, pulling him along on the path. “Red like the rays of the dying sun,” he recited theatrically. “Red like the ripest of apples. Red like the blushing cheeks of a maiden.”

Felix snorted, trying not to laugh. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“But it’s the truth.”

“All right, all right, whatever you say.”

“Glenn said he liked my red hair!”

“Glenn loved you like a little brother, so of course he would say that.” Felix rolled his eyes. “He was too nice to lie, anyway.”

“You don’t like my red hair?”

“I don’t care about your stupid hair! Now, can we go back to the dining hall, or are you going to stay there spewing bad poetry for the rest of the evening? If so, you’re going to stay alone.”

Sylvain laughed. “Nah, let’s finish our supper. I’m famished!”

-

“You do know that this is bullshit, right?”

Felix jumped in his chair. The book he’d been holding spilled out of his hands, falling to the ground with a hard thump. The noise sounded stupidly loud in the otherwise silent library.

Heart pounding, he swiveled in his seat and glared daggers up at Miklan. “Bloody hell! How can you move so fucking silently? Don’t sneak up on people, you huge creep!”

Miklan bent to pick the book up, looking at the title embossed in gold filigree on the leather spine. “ _Legends of Sreng_ ,” he read with a disgusted curl to his lip. “If only half of it were true.”

Felix grunted and tore the book out of Miklan’s hand, annoyed to have been caught unawares while he was reading. Miklan stood beside his chair, leaning casually against one of the thick columns that held the ceiling. He’d been back for a couple of days, and his return had thrown the keep in a frenzy. From what Felix had gathered from gossip, Miklan had been sent out with a few soldiers to meet a Srengi party. Things had gone south quickly, and Miklan had returned home wounded with half of his people dead. Felix hadn’t been there when he came back, but the ones who’d been had sworn it was a miracle he was still alive. Apparently, he’d bled so much that the flank of his horse had been painted red.

Gazing up at him, Felix had no trouble believing it. Although a healer mage had seen to him, Miklan still looked to have one foot in the grave. He was dreadfully pale. His skin was shiny with sweat. His hair stuck to his pallid face. His eyes were bright with fever. He kept one of his hands pressed to his side where he’d been stabbed. Through his tunic, Felix could see the shape of thick bandaging. He held himself with his back slightly bent, like he couldn’t quite stand up straight. The mere act of bending to pick the book up looked to have left him breathless.

“What are you even doing here?” Felix asked. “I can’t believe the healer let you out of bed.”

“I’m not going to spend a week lying in bed like a wounded dog,” Miklan grunted. “I hate it. It’s boring.”

“All right, but why are you in the _library_? Are you here to torment me?”

Miklan groaned in annoyance. He pulled a chair nearer to him and sat down gingerly. He hissed in pain, pressing his hand to his wounded side. There were myriads of tiny cuts on his face, as if he’d fallen into brambles. “Torment you? Don’t flatter yourself, brat. What do people normally do in libraries, genius?”

Felix looked around at the tall shelves filled with books, scrolls, and rolls. “I’m surprised to hear you like reading.”

Miklan rolled his eyes. “I have other hobbies than bothering Sylvain and punching people, you little shit.” There was no real venom in his voice, only tiredness and pain. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m bored,” Felix said. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and gave the other man a long look. “You look dead on your feet. That attack did a number on you.”

“Yeah, try getting impaled on a lance, we’ll see how healthy you look afterward. Those Srengi fuckers never intended to parley with us. They attacked us the second they spotted us. My father’s pissed about it.”

“I can see why. You could have died.”

Miklan gave a bark of laughter. “Ah! He would have been pleased! I’m sure he was disappointed I managed to drag my ass back home.” He grinned wickedly. “You would have been happy too, don’t lie.”

Felix didn’t answer right away. Would he have been happy if Miklan had been killed during the raid? His first instinct was to say that yes, he would have been. With Miklan dead, Sylvain would have been safe. Things would have been much easier for him. And yet, Felix couldn’t _quite_ wish someone dead, not even Miklan.

“I’d rather you just went away,” Felix chose to say.

“Aww, how charitable of you,” Miklan taunted. He bumped his knee against Felix’s. “I heard you were going back home soon. You going to tell your father about us?”

“Yes,” Felix lied. He looked at Miklan straight in the eye. “Why? Are you afraid of what he’s going to do once he learns of it?”

Miklan snorted. “Afraid? What would I be afraid of? Nobody is afraid of Duke Rodrigue. He’s a coward who used to hide behind the king’s skirts. Everybody knows he’s too much of a carpet to mete out justice. No, the only thing he’ll do is whine to my father, and my father won’t give a shit what I did with you.” Miklan quirked an eyebrow at Felix, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. “Nah, Duke Rodrigue would have torn me to pieces only if I’d hurt his precious Glenn, the same way my father would visit hell on anyone hurting Sylvain only.”

Was that the truth? Possibly. Felix’s father had said that he would have preferred Felix to die in Glenn’s stead. It would make sense that he wouldn’t be much upset if Felix had gotten hurt. “I won’t tell my father just so he can hurt you, dumbass,” Felix retorted. “I’ll tell him just so he can wallow in shame.”

“And so you can get disinherited, don’t forget that. I hope you’ve learned some useful skills for when you’re thrown out of daddy’s home.”

Felix refused to be intimidated by the threat. “This would be quite unnecessary. My father won’t disinherit me for the sole reason that it would cause a scandal. Too many people would ask questions.”

Miklan chortled. “Admitting he disinherited his youngest son because he’s a slut who sleeps with men would indeed tarnish the Fraldarius’ saintly reputation! That would be entertaining indeed!”

“Exactly. So, he won’t do it. Instead, he’ll just… I don’t know, he’ll just keep me locked inside my rooms or something.”

“You could run away.”

The suggestion surprised Felix. He hadn’t thought about it. In fact, he didn’t think it had ever crossed his mind to simply leave. He could pack a bag, steal a bit of money from his father’s full coffers, saddle his favourite horse, and go. He could become a mercenary perhaps—there certainly would be at least one company willing to take on the bearer of the major Fraldarius Crest. He was a good swordsman and his talent in archery was coming in nicely. He could make a living this way.

“You’re actually considering it,” Miklan said, sounding slightly taken aback. “You would leave your cozy life just to piss your father off?”

“Not only to piss him off. I just can’t live with all his expectations. I feel like I can’t breathe when he’s around me.” Felix gritted his teeth. He dug his fingernails into the fabric of his trousers, chest tightening. “He just wants me to be perfect like Glenn and I _can’t_. I don’t want to be perfect. I don’t want to be _Glenn_ , for heaven’s sake. I don’t fit in the stuffy Fódlan mould. I don’t want to be a knight. I don’t want to marry some girl. I don’t want to have kids.”

Silence descended. Felix realised with a jolt what he’d just said. He’d just spilled out his heart to _Miklan_ of all people. Shame flooded him, making his face hot. Damn it, baring his soul was so much more embarrassing than baring his body. He could feel Miklan’s eyes on him, assessing him. The bastard would probably burst into laughter, and why shouldn’t he? Felix knew he was pathetic, knew he was whining for nothing. How many people would give up a limb to be in his position? How many poor peasants wouldn’t be glad to settle for this kind of life just so they could have a roof over their head and food in their bellies? Felix was willing to throw it all away simply because he couldn’t take the pressure.

He was a coward. He was weak. Why couldn’t he just be _normal_?

“Ah, societal pressure,” Miklan said after a moment. He chuckled. “Don’t we all feel crushed under it? You think I don’t understand how you feel? Try not having a Crest when your whole damn society is built around it.” He shifted in his chair, wincing in discomfort. “It all sucks.”

“You’re not helping,” Felix barked, his embarrassment making him short-tempered.

“Do you actually want my advice or do you just want to whine?”

Felix looked up at him. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see whether Miklan was mocking him. It was hard to tell. Miklan’s face was difficult to read. His gaze gave nothing away. His body language was stiff, though it might only be because of the pain caused by his wounds. It seemed hardly possible that he was _commiserating_ with _this_ man. Yet, if he took a moment to think about it, of everybody Felix knew, Miklan was the only one who didn’t fit either. Dimitri, Sylvain, Glenn, Duke Rodrigue, they were all people who fitted the Faergan way of life. (Well, Sylvain was considered weird, but he fitted nonetheless up to a certain point.)

“Stop caring what people think,” was all Miklan said. “Do whatever you want. If your father disinherits you, then fine, just do something else. Otherwise, enjoy your title and the money that comes with it. Don’t get married, don’t have kids, whatever. Or do it just so people will be satisfied and leave you alone.”

“But my father…” Felix trailed off, trying to put his thoughts into order. He frowned. “He sent me to spend the summer here because of that. I mean, he saw me kissing a stable boy. He dismissed the guy because of me. He’ll do it every time he catches me with someone. Soon, there’ll only be female servants at our estate, I’m sure. If I do what I want, he’ll dismiss those people who’ve done nothing wrong.”

Miklan looked at him uncomprehendingly, then he grinned. “Ah, I see. That’s why you were so keen on bedding me—you know your father cannot touch me.”

Felix scowled—nobody had ever called Miklan stupid. “Way to miss the point, Miklan.”

“What can I tell you except for ‘don’t get caught’? Stop caring what happens to others. Hell, just go to a brothel and _pay_ for a guy. You’re rich, aren’t you?”

“ _Pay_ for a guy?! Are you insane?! I’d never do that!”

“Or you could visit here more often and keep sleeping with me. That’s a neat arrangement, isn’t it?”

Felix hated himself for even considering it. He had told himself that he wouldn’t sleep with Miklan again, not after Sylvain could have caught them the last time. Despite this, there was no denying the certain appeal of this sort of arrangement. He visited the Gautier territories often enough that he could get laid regularly. Miklan was a great lover. He was also a known quantity, someone Felix knew. Although he couldn’t be trusted on many things, he’d never stab Felix in the back, never threaten to spill his dirty secrets to embarrass him. If he did, it would be easy to deny his words and to brand him a liar.

It all circled back to the reasons Felix had first come up with to seduce Miklan. No matter how hard he tried, the only downside to this was that Sylvain might find out. And it was a huge downside, certainly the only reason why Felix wasn’t just agreeing right away. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Miklan had nearly killed his best friend on many occasions. Miklan wasn’t just a shitty older brother, he was a murderous one. Getting rid of Sylvain was still certainly foremost in his mind—no doubt he’d jump at the first occasion he got to kill him.

And yet Felix was still entertaining the thought. He was a fucking selfish bastard like that.

“I hate you so fucking much,” Felix growled as he threw himself on his knees in front of the other man. He undid Miklan’s trousers with fingers that didn’t even shake. “Sleeping with you was the worst damn idea of my whole life. I should become a damn monk instead of doing this.” But he didn’t stop, not even when he heard Miklan chuckle in triumph, not even because they were in _library_ and could get caught by the first person walking in, and especially not when Miklan grasped his ponytail in a tight fist.

It didn’t last long. Felix sucked sloppily and squeezed and used every dirty tricks in his arsenal to make Miklan come in a matter of minutes. He swallowed it all with an eagerness that terrified him. When he was done, he pulled back, breathing hard. The pull on his scalp barely relented. Miklan refused to let him go, refused to let him up. Felix remained kneeling there on the old flagstones, his world narrowed down to only the man whose knees he knelt between.

A blotch at the corner of his eye brought him back to the present. He looked up and saw that blood had spread over Miklan’s tunic—shockingly red against the green. “Fuck,” Felix breathed, eyes going wide.

Miklan had apparently not noticed that the wound had been reopened; what little colour was left on his face disappeared the second he saw the spreading stain. He pressed his hand harder on it. “Fucking hell,” he hissed. “Barely remembered that thing with how eager you were to suck me off.”

“How can you joke at a moment like this, you moron?!” Felix hurriedly retied Miklan’s trousers and stood up. “Come on, we gotta bring you back to your room.”

“I’m fine,” Miklan grunted, getting up too. Immediately, he had to steady himself on the table, wavering like someone drunk. His face turned ashen and his knees looked ready to buckle. “Or maybe not. Fuck.”

Felix, unsure, grabbed his arm. Miklan had to wait a couple more seconds before he could let go of the table. He seemed annoyed at his own weakness. Felix could feel the tension pulling his muscles tight. If he weren’t so weak, he’d probably push him off for daring trying to help.

Miklan more or less managed to leave the library under his own power. He shuffled awkwardly, shoulders rounded and back bent like he was trying to protect his injury. The blood no longer seemed to be spreading as fast on his tunic, but the stain was alarmingly large. His fingers were dripping red already.

Once in the corridor, Felix had to step in to help him remain upright. It was made awkward by the fact that Felix was too short for Miklan to comfortably lean on, and it was evident that he was hating every moment of it. Felix had to consciously stiffen his spine to keep Miklan up.

“Hey!” Felix shouted the second he spotted a maid. The woman jumped and nearly dropped her pile of laundry when she saw them. “Fetch the healer! The margrave’s son’s bleeding!”

Her eyes darted between the two of them, uncertain. She clutched at the laundry tighter, taking a step back. Then, she shook her head, turned tail, and disappeared down the corridor in a run.

“What the fuck?” Felix hissed.

Miklan chuckled mirthlessly. “I might have roughened her up a bit in the past. She’s not inclined on helping.”

“She’d let you die?!”

“Who would care? My father’d probably give her a promotion.”

Felix had no idea what to say to that—and he was too breathless to talk anyway. He firmed his grip on Miklan and forced him forward again. He doubted very much Miklan would die, but having him fainting on the floor would be inconvenient. And anyway, if Miklan had to die, it would be by Sylvain’s hand, not before. Sylvain deserved his revenge. Felix wouldn’t let him be cheated of it.

And so, he tugged and snarled and pushed at the other man until they stumbled upon a guardsman. This one was more amenable to help. The man rushed to Miklan’s other side and took most of his weight, cursing.

“What happened?” the man asked.

“His wound’s reopened,” Felix panted. “We gotta find the healer.”

“She’s seeing to a cook who’s burned himself. I’ll fetch her.”

Before Felix had time to protest, the guardsman abandoned them to hurry to the kitchens. He nearly dropped Miklan then. They both stumbled ungracefully and hit the wall, Felix taking the brunt of the impact. For a moment, he could only smell blood and sweaty skin before Miklan managed to right himself with obvious difficulty.

“We’re almost there,” Felix said. “Come on.”

Miklan didn’t look inclined to move right away. He leaned against the wall, panting hard, long, messy hair obscuring his face. The defeated posture reminded Felix uncomfortably of Sylvain in their younger days, back when his friend had been too bad an actor to successfully hide his hurts.

“Why the fuck are you helping me?” Miklan spat through gritted teeth. “Shouldn’t you want me dead?”

Annoyance rose in Felix. Anger made him stupid. He seized the front of Miklan’s tunic and forced him to stand upright (he mentally thanked the boost of strength his Crest suddenly granted him). “You’ll die when Sylvain kills you, not before, and certainly not bleeding like a pig in the middle of a hallway! So, put one foot in front of the other and fucking _walk_.”

Miklan was pallid and sweaty, his eyes were bright with fever. Despite this, the surprise etched in his features was unmistakable. He stared at Felix, then snorted. He straightened with difficulty, wincing in pain. “You little shit,” he said with a shake of his head. “Can’t understand why your brother was your father’s favourite.”

Felix hated how his insides warmed at the compliment, how good it made him feel. He had always, mostly unconsciously, tried to be better than Glenn. Not only at fighting, but at so many other things. He had wanted to emulate Glenn’s poise, his pattern of speech, his way of going through life apparently effortlessly, his easygoingness that had made so many people attracted to him. And Felix kept failing. He was stiff and prickly and dull, a colourless stone compared to Glenn’s shiny sapphire. He wasn’t charismatic. He wasn’t as smart or as quirky. Hell, he wasn’t half the swordsman his brother had been at fifteen.

He suspected those were amongst the many reasons why their father had always preferred Glenn. Duke Rodrigue wanted a son that was a younger version of himself. Someone dutiful, someone smart, someone righteous and full of the knightly virtues that made up the Feargan society. Glenn had been all that. Glenn could have been the knight sung about in ballads or written about in epics. He was the son a father could be proud of parading around.

Since Felix possessed none of those things, he had been relegated to the background. Oh, he hadn’t been mistreated. He had been afforded every privilege a child of his rank should. The best tutors had schooled him. The best swordsmen had taught him. He had been given the best of everything.

Except for his father’s approval. Felix remembered Glenn being fifteen and how their father had taken him into his confidence. The two of them would spend hours together in Duke Rodrigue’s office, talking about politics and the running of the estate and everything that made up the days of a ruling lord. They had been _close_. There had been a companionship to them. They had been more than father and son. They had been friends, almost equals. Inside the office, Glenn would have been given a seat, he wouldn’t have been made to stand in front of the desk like a naughty child. Glenn wouldn’t have been grounded if he’d misbehaved (which he never did).

And so, it was a thoroughly disconcerting feeling for Felix to be praised for the qualities he was usually rebuked for. His father never would have approved of his way of talking, of his way of behaving, with Miklan. Sleeping with him notwithstanding, Duke Rodrigue would never have approved of Felix trying to shake some sense into Miklan, of helping him to his room, of telling him he agreed that Sylvain should kill him. His father was such a damn hypocrite—he hated Miklan but he never would have told him to his face.

Felix knew he wasn’t entirely useless despite what his father told him. He knew he had qualities and good sides, but they were so rarely brought up to light that he sometimes forgot about them. He spent so much time focusing on what was wrong with him that he forgot what was right.

It sucked that the one person who appreciated his good sides was _Miklan_.

Still, whoever it was, it warmed Felix up to be told that he was as worthy of notice as Glenn. Miklan never would have said those things to Glenn. He would have mocked him and insulted him. In fact, Felix doubted Miklan ever _respected_ Glenn no matter that Glenn was stronger than him.

“I still can understand why Sylvain’s your father’s favourite,” Felix commented, unsure what else to say. There was no way he was sharing those innermost thoughts with Miklan. “At least he wouldn’t have gotten himself gutted on the battlefield.”

Miklan chortled, the sound weak and bubbly. He had to lean on Felix for the last few steps of their journey. “You’d like to think that, but I’m still stronger than him.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

The healer still hadn’t arrived. Felix began to wonder whether the helpful guardsman had just conveniently _forgotten_ about them. Judging by the way Miklan treated the servants of the keep, it wouldn’t be surprising that a few of them wouldn’t lift a finger to save his life.

It took Felix a few seconds to manage to unlatch the door. Between holding Miklan up and fiddling with the latch, his own strength was running out quickly. The older man was nearly limp against his shoulder, his head lolling forward. He kept muttering under his breath, things that Felix didn’t bother listening to. If the idiot crumbled to the floor, Felix wasn’t sure he’d be able to get him up again. He could imagine himself dragging Miklan into his room by the foot, a smear of blood left in his wake on the flagstones. He didn’t like this image one bit.

Finally, the door yielded to his clumsy fingers. He shouldered it aside and pulled Miklan inside. Miklan caught his foot on the rug and nearly sent them both crashing down. Felix stumbled, swearing colourfully, but managed to remain standing. With much pushing and grumbling, he dragged Miklan to his bed and pushed him on it. Miklan fell in an untidy heap, grunting in pain.

“Stop whining,” Felix told him between panting breaths. “Just lie still. The healer’s on her way.”

Miklan gave another breathless chuckle. “Maybe she conveniently got lost.” The hand pressing down on his wound was dyed entirely red now. It seemed like the lower part of his tunic had changed colour. “Fucking hell. I don’t want to die because of a damn Srengi bastard.”

“Enough with the drama, you won’t die.” Felix pushed Miklan’s hand away and lifted the tunic up gingerly. The pad of fabric that served as bandaging was soaked crimson. It was soaked with it. “Didn’t the healer fix this?” he asked, appalled.

“She fixed the worst of it. Ow! Don’t touch it, you little shit! What the fuck are you doing?!”

Ignoring Miklan’s weak protests, Felix undid the bandages. The feeling of cloth drenched in warm blood made him sick to his stomach. He’d seen injuries on the training yard, but nothing to that extent. It was nearly enough to deter him from ever stepping on a battlefield.

The wound that was revealed to him wasn’t as large as he had feared. It was a jagged hole that oozed blood. He could see that scar tissue had already begun forming after the healer’s intervention, but that it had been torn, therefore reopening the wound. He didn’t know whether it was because the healing job had been botched or because Miklan hadn’t listened to her instructions. He supposed that, after fixing the worst of the injuries, she would have given Miklan time to recover from the magic before continuing. Felix knew enough about magic from his father to know that it could harm nearly as easily as it could heal if not used properly.

He dropped the dripping bandage to the floor and looked around. He spotted a tunic draped on the back of a chair, snatched it, waded it up into a ball, and pressed it to the wound. Miklan swore colourfully. He seized Felix’s wrist in a grasp hard enough to bruise, but didn’t push his hand away.

“Just lie still,” Felix instructed in a tight voice. “I told you; I won’t let you die.”

Miklan took several shallow breaths against the pain before slumping back. Strands of orange hair stuck to his sweaty, pale face. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just fucking fetch Sylvain so he can put me out of my misery.”

“Sylvain wouldn’t kill a man who’s already down. He’s too fair for that.”

“Humph, your feelings for the little bastard blind you. He isn’t half as nice as you think.”

Felix pressed harder on the wound, throwing Miklan a warning glare. “If you’ve got energy to spare to talk, then use to it to lie still instead. Stop wiggling about.”

“Fuck you.”

“Some other time, perhaps.”

Despite the pain he was obviously in, Miklan grinned wickedly at him. “You’re addicted now, aren’t you?”

Felix opened his mouth to answer, but was mercifully saved from it by the healer waltzing into the room. Her arrival relieved Felix much more than he’d like to admit. The healer, a middle-aged woman with greying hair, took charge of the whole situation with the air of one used to it. She pushed Felix aside after telling him to get out of her way. She threw his makeshift bandage a disgusted look, like he’d done something downright stupid.

He didn’t feel like arguing, so he obeyed. He stepped aside, giving her ample room to work. When he looked down at himself, he saw that his own hands were red and that there were large blotches of blood on his light blue tunic—shit, Miklan had bled all over him. He stood there like an idiot, unsure whether he should leave or stay. Should he fetch the margrave? Or Sylvain? Did anyone need to know that Miklan would be incapacitated for a while? Did anyone _care_? Felix thought about margrave Gilles Gautier’s hard face, and supposed he probably didn’t give a shit. The man’s sole focus had always been turned towards Sreng, never towards his own children.

He decided to stay until the healer was finished—surely the woman would tell him what to do. The air filled with the smell of spent magic. It glowed golden around the bed. Once, in his youth, Felix had seen a page with a broken foot being fixed by a healer. The sight of bones snapping into place and tendons pulling tight again had been as fascinating as it had been disgusting. He’d never sought a healer himself in the past, not even when he’d gotten hurt on the training yard. Scrapes and bruises could heal on their own.

After a while, the woman stepped back from the bed. For a second, Felix thought she had killed Miklan for how still he lied. His chest didn’t even move with his breathing and his face was grey. Aghast, he stepped closer.

“He’s asleep,” the healer declared. She uncaringly wiped her bloodied hands down the front of her robes. “He needs rest. I’ll send a physician to bandage the wound properly this time. If he wakes up in the meantime, tell him to lie still. I’ll have him drugged otherwise.”

Relief flooded Felix. He looked down at the wound on Miklan’s abdomen—it seemed to have shrunken in size. Sure, it was still there, but it appeared far more benign than it had been an hour ago. It was nothing that a good bandage wouldn’t fix.

“Uh,” Felix began eloquently. “I can’t stay here.”

“Why not? You’re the only one who cares.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’m out of here. I need a drink.”

Without a backward glance, she swept out of the room in a swirl of white robes.

Felix had no idea what to do with himself. He didn’t want to stay here. Sitting by someone’s sickbed wasn’t his style, especially not for someone he didn’t even remotely like. But the words ‘ _you’re the only one who cares’_ nagged at his conscience. Although Miklan had mostly brought this upon himself, it was still a little bit sad.

This could be Felix lying in this bed alone in five years. This could be Felix slowly being isolated, slowly being considered less worthy. It wasn’t only a matter of Crest. Felix knew that it didn’t matter that much to his own father. If Felix had been like Glenn but without a Crest, his father would have loved him more.

Before realising what he was doing, Felix sat on the only chair available. At his elbow was a small table with a decanter of some gold-coloured liquor and a couple of empty glasses. There was also a non-descript book with a piece of fabric sticking out from between the pages. After wiping his hands on his trousers, Felix picked the book up, slightly curious about Miklan’s reading habits. It was by an author he didn’t know and, based on the few lines he read at random, seemed to be about an epic adventure. He thumbed the pages until he found the place where Miklan had stopped reading. The piece of fabric he used as a marker was familiar: it was the white ribbon he’d used to tie his hair, the one Miklan had snatched from him after they’d had sex the first time. Felix had expected him to have thrown it away just to be an ass. It was weird that he would have kept it in the first place.

He occupied himself with the book for a moment. The prose was nothing impressive and the penmanship left a lot to be desired. Still, it was better than sitting there with only his thoughts for companionship. Distractedly, he wondered what Sylvain was doing—his friend was meeting with someone from a nearby town to discuss the militia. It was difficult to remember at times that Sylvain didn’t spend his days lazing about. He had responsibilities. He was an important member of his father’s entourage and nobody considered him a child anymore. Unlike Felix, whose father kept him in school and who never discussed business with him. Yes, now Felix was excellent at rhetoric and he could recite poetry backwards and he could sing some dull hymns, that wouldn’t prepare him to be the next duke Fraldarius.

It made him reconsider Miklan’s words about running away. Ever since he’d heard them, they’d been nagging at him. He was surprised that it hadn’t crossed his mind yet, but he wasn’t surprised that he was entertaining the idea. Nothing held him back at his father’s side. He had lost his beloved big brother, his friendship with Dimitri was ruined, his relationship with his father had soured beyond belief, and he didn’t want to inherit the dukedom. What kind of life awaited him if he stayed? Would he allow himself to be bent out of shape to conform to the Fódlan mould? Would he simply grow tired of fighting and just accept meekly what was shoved down his throat? He imagined himself five years from now, freshly out of the Officer’s Academy, going back home, only to be told by his father that he’d found him a fiancée. Felix would be rapidly married off before he had time to argue. Once he was married, his father would give him some mindless task to keep his time occupied while nagging at him to produce heirs.

Could he do it? Could he become a pen pusher like his father, sitting behind a desk for hours on end while presiding over an estate? His main duties would be to look after the taxes, adjudicate disputes between nobles, read over contracts, sign endless scrolls, attend state functions, rule over others while his unwanted wife simpered for his attention.

Felix felt physically ill at the thought. He put the book down and pressed his hand to his stomach, fearing that he would actually throw up. He wouldn’t be able to do it. He was certain of it. It wasn’t in his nature to pretend. He had never been good at it, and he doubted one could practice deceit long enough to become convincing. He’d hate his duties, he’d hate his father even more, he’d hate his wife who was forced upon him through no fault of her own. Hell, he’d probably even hate the children they’d produce. Would he turn into a margrave Gautier— distant and cruel and uncaring? Would he turn into his own father, favouring one child over the other?

He couldn’t abide it.

He reached for the decanter of liquor and poured himself a generous helping into a glass. His hand shook as he took it to his mouth. The liquid burned his throat. His eyes watered with the sting of it.

It was not _fair_.

If Glenn hadn’t died, none of that pressure would be on Felix. His father wouldn’t care whether he married or not because Glenn would do it and Glenn would produce children. He wouldn’t care that Felix didn’t like women—he’d probably be more than happy to discard him discreetly. Felix could actually _leave_ Fraldarius manor to seek out a life of his choosing.

But with Glenn dead, it all felt on Felix’s shoulders. The future of the duchy rested upon him. Oh, he had cousins, but they weren’t part of the main Fraldarius line.

He gulped the rest of the liquor, hoping it would numb his brain.

He had no idea how long he sat there until a noise coming from the door shook him out of his reverie. He turned in his chair to see Sylvain standing on the threshold of the open door, eyes wide. Felix straightened—he’d been dozing off and the glass had nearly slipped from his slack hand.

“Sylvain,” he mumbled. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard about what happened,” Sylvain said, walking in uncertainly. He kept a wary eye on the bed, like he expected Miklan to come out of his sleep to punch him. “What are _you_ doing here?” He took in the blood on Felix’s tunic. “Did you get into a fight with Miklan?”

“No, no,” Felix shook his head. “We were a-arguing and his wound reopened. I helped him back here.”

Sylvain’s face was difficult to read, quite blank. It was an odd look on him, making him look like someone else. “Ah. That was nice of you.”

Felix flinched—was that a rebuke? It wouldn’t be like Sylvain, but Felix couldn’t forget that he was human, and that he was certainly suffering from the way his brother had been treating him. “I couldn’t simply let him die on the floor.”

“No, no, of course not! Truly, it was nice of you.” Sylvain smiled, his eyes clearing suddenly. “You’re way too nice.”

What could he answer to that? The alcohol, stronger than what he was used to, befuddled his senses. He blinked, trying to clear his blurry vision. “Oh, no, I’m not nice. It was simply instinct.”

Sylvain gave one last glance towards his brother before motioning at Felix to come closer. “Come on, let’s go. A physician will sit with him. You look tired.”

Felix sighed—he was tired. The adrenaline that had coursed through his body earlier had left him exhausted. He got to his feet, glad to finally be doing something other than sitting. He too looked towards the bed. Miklan hadn’t moved a muscle. His chest rose and fell to the rhythm of his breathing. His colours looked better. Clearly, the healer had done a good job. The bandage keeping the wound protected had remained white—no blood stained it. Felix couldn’t recall the physician coming into the room.

Sylvain rested a gentle hand on his shoulder and steered him out of the room. Out the corner of his eye, Felix spotted an older man dressed in white robes waiting patiently—probably the physician.

“Is it time for supper?” Felix asked when his stomach rumbled for the second time. The arrow-slit windows they walked by were all dark.

Sylvain laughed. “Supper’s over! I kept a meat pie aside for you, don’t worry.” He shook his head. “You drank way too much! Your father’s going to be pissed.”

Felix grunted. “He doesn’t have to learn of it.”

Sylvain stopped walking. His eyes went wide. “Oh. Of course you wouldn’t know.”

“Know what?” Dread mounted inside Felix’s guts.

“Duke Rodrigue is here. He arrived a few hours ago.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is finally it! The last chapter has been posted! I apologize for the delay, and I hope the length of this chapter will make up for it!
> 
> Once again, I wish to thank everybody who read this fic. It gathered more attention than I ever thought possible. I'm grateful beyond words. Also, thank you to those who left kudos and comments! You've made writing this fic even more interesting! It is so flattering to know people enjoy my work.
> 
> And, without further ado, here is the last chapter!
> 
> Enjoy!

Sylvain, bless his heart, looked properly aghast when Felix declared he’d be seeing his father without stopping by his bedchamber first. He couldn’t care less about how wretched he looked with his blood-stained tunic, dirty hands, and pale face, or about the fact that he was on his way to being drunk. In fact, he revelled in it.

As he marched across the keep towards the margrave’s study where his father awaited, he caught sight of his reflection in the glass door of a cabinet. What he saw in the rectangular pane of glass was a dirty-looking boy that could have been a servant rather than the son of a duke. Even his hair was a mess, strands pulled out of their binding to fall artlessly around his face. He didn’t bother fixing it.

Sylvain followed him, a slightly uncertain expression on his face. He didn’t know much of the strife between Felix and his father. He knew what had been said in anger, but he couldn’t know that the problem ran much deeper. To him, Duke Rodrigue was a kindly man who’d always welcomed him with open arms. He was a nice change from his own cold and distant father who cared about him only because of his Crest.

And so, he didn’t understand the emotions boiling inside Felix. He certainly didn’t understand the clenched jaw and hunched shoulders and the determined expression on his face. Felix didn’t have the heart nor the inclination to explain. He could hardly think straight knowing that his father was only a few corridors away. Felix had thought he still had a couple of weeks at least before he had to go home. He hadn’t been preparing himself mentally to meet his father.

(He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have run away before he had to go home, actually.)

Margrave Gautier’s study was situated at the back of the keep. It was on one of the highest floors, affording him a view due north over the Srengi territories. Felix’s earliest memories of the man were of him standing by a window, gazing broodingly over the northern expanse of land that caused him such grief. Whenever he wasn’t fighting the Srengi warriors himself, he’d be here in his study, staring out his window like it would make a difference.

Felix paused by the door to breathe deeply. He hadn’t run, but his muscles were bunched so tight that it was difficult to catch a proper breath. Sylvain stood at his elbow, unsure, looking like he’d prefer being elsewhere. Felix didn’t have comforting words for him. He could barely think of his own situation around the veil of anxiety smothering his thoughts.

Sylvain knocked at the door, and they both stood there for a moment until they were invited to walk in. Sylvain offered him a grin, a quirking of his lips that made him look wicked and dashing and somehow much older than his seventeen years. Felix could have died happily for one glimpse of that smile.

There was no more time. Sylvain opened the door, and there was no sense in staying on the threshold. Felix wasn’t a coward. He wouldn’t turn tail and run. He would face his father head on.

He walked into the study with his head held high. He had seen this room only a handful of times—it was surprisingly bare for being the favourite place of a margrave. A large desk made of dark wood took most of the space. Behind it was a cushioned chair that looked to have been there for centuries. One wall was occupied by shelves and pigeonholes, both of which were full of books and scrolls. A hearth was on the opposite wall. A fire burned merrily, filling the place with warmth. Alongside a few oil lamps, it provided light. There were three more chairs, far less grand than the one sitting behind the desk.

Margrave Gilles Gautier and Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius had been in deep conversation by the window. They both turned when their sons walked in. Felix was struck by their differences in appearance. The margrave was older than the duke by a good decade, and looked it. There were deep lines on his face, framing his mouth and barring his forehead. His green eyes were sunken. His red hair, that had once been lush and as bright as Sylvain’s, was dull and streaked with white. Although he was powerfully built with broad shoulders and a huge chest, there was a curve to his spine that made him look defeated. Because of that, he looked to be the same height as Duke Rodrigue, while he was quite taller. As for the duke himself, he stood straight and proud with his shoulders thrown back. He was impeccable as usual, another counterpoint to the frumpy margrave.

Felix gave a respectful nod to the margrave before turning to his father warily. “Good evening, father,” he said with frosty politeness—he didn’t want to make a scene in front of Sylvain and his father.

“As I was saying,” margrave Gautier cut in before Felix’s father had a chance to speak up, “Felix was no trouble at all. Isn’t that right, Sylvain?”

Sylvain nodded quickly. “Quite right, father. Felix was as nice as usual, Duke Rodrigue.”

Felix almost feared his father would look doubtful. Instead, the older man nodded, as if it was what he had expected all along. There was a minor twitch of his right eyebrow, but Felix didn’t know what to make of it. “I’m glad to hear it, Gilles,” he said warmly.

“What are you doing here, father?” Felix blurted out. He had to know. The tension was becoming unbearable.

If the margrave were dismayed by the impolite tone, he said nothing of it. Felix thought he saw Sylvain wince out the corner of his eye.

“I thought I’d accompany your escort. It’s been a while since I came to the Gautier lands. I wanted to see how things were going.”

“Same as always,” Margrave Gautier grumbled. He looked out the window. “Srengi bastards are being themselves. They nearly killed the party I’d sent out for peace talks.”

“I could have gone back on my own,” Felix said, hands tightening into fists at his sides.

His father looked between the margrave and him, unsure whom to answer first. “Nonsense, Felix,” he said with a shake of his head. “The road is dangerous and treacherous. As Gilles said, the situation isn’t improving. You could have been set upon by Srengi warriors.”

“I’m not scared of some skirt-wearing bastards!” Felix exclaimed.

To their surprise, margrave Gautier barked out a laugh. “Ha! If only Sylvain had half that spunk!” He slapped Rodrigue’s back, making the duke stumble forward a pace. “You’ve got a fine son, Rodrigue. Feed him a bit more so he’ll grow tall, and I’ll happily have him at my back to fight off the Srengi. Anyway, I’ll leave the two of you to it. I’ll be in my apartments. Good night.”

The margrave swept out of the room in a swirl of red cloak. Sylvain winked at Felix, bowed to the duke, and left too.

The sound of the door closing made Felix want to scream. Had he been a tad less proud, he would have asked for Sylvain to stay with him. Suddenly, the study seemed too small and too stuffy. Felix was acutely aware of his dirty tunic and disheveled appearance. His father took it all in in one disapproving glance. Felix refused to be intimated. He tilted his chin up and let his father drink his fill.

“It seems you’ve behaved properly throughout the summer,” his father commented after a moment. His voice was controlled, nearly emotionless. It was the voice he used to speak to servants whose name he hadn’t learned yet.

The comment made Felix feel like a dog being told he’d executed a nice trick. His face warmed up. “Yes, I did,” he spat. The venom he mustered for those three words didn’t surprise him. “Have you talked to any of the stable boys yet?” he asked in a sickly sweet voice. “Want to know what I’ve been up to?”

His father’s lips thinned. “This is quite enough, Felix. We won’t argue over this anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had a talk with Sylvain. He is your friend, correct?”

The question puzzled Felix. He had no idea why his father would ask the obvious. It made him suspicious without knowing why. “Yes?”

His father sighed. He looked outside at the night. Stars were appearing slowly. The clouds that had left the day overcast had been blown away by brisk winds. The air smelled of the upcoming autumn. “It was my intention to have you betrothed by the end of summer, but I realised this was the wrong way to go about it.” With his gaze turned away, he couldn’t see how pale Felix had gotten. “I thought it would be better to talk to your friend first. Sylvain and you have been thick as thieves since you were children. He knows you better than I ever could. Therefore, I enlisted his help in that matter. He said he would introduce you to suitable young women, ones that might strike your fancy. It would be preferable than marrying you to a girl who isn’t to your liking.”

Surely, there had to be an archer hidden somewhere, because Felix felt as if he’d just been hit by an arrow in the chest. The pain was so intense that he actually looked down at himself, sure that he’d see the fletching of an arrow sticking out from between his ribs. There was nothing, and yet the pain persisted. The world became unsteady around him. He rocked on his heels, actually taking a step back.

Betrayal stabbed him, a white-hot knife straight to his heart. His father had talked to Sylvain about him. He’d gone to _his_ friend behind his back. What right did he have to behave this way? It was sick. It was unfair. Had his father told Sylvain _why_ he had such a weird request for him? Had Sylvain asked any questions? Worse, had Sylvain agreed to help him on this venture? Surely he hadn’t. Surely Sylvain wouldn’t agree to something like this behind Felix’s back.

His eyes burned. He could hardly take in a full breath. He had to make an effort to remain standing. The alcohol coursing through his blood made thinking difficult. Everything was fuzzy around the edges.

“I won’t do it,” Felix murmured, unable to raise his voice with how breathless he felt. “I won’t do it,” he repeated louder. He looked up so his eyes met his father’s. “You cannot force me.”

Duke Rodrigue heaved a sigh. “I could force you, Felix. There are precedents. I could have you married by proxy.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” He hated how desperate this sounded. He didn’t want to sound desperate, he wanted to sound angry. But the dismay filling him made it difficult. It smothered every other feeling, leaving him floundering.

“I’m simply thinking about the future. I’m looking out for you, son, believe it or not.”

“No you’re not. You’re just… you’re only thinking about appearances…!”

His father frowned. “Felix, are you _drunk_?” He approached and took a sniff of the air. His face hardened. “You _are_. What are you thinking, getting drunk? You’re only fifteen. What kind of example are you setting? This is embarrassing.”

“Margrave Gautier doesn’t give a damn. Nobody gives a shit.”

His father’s lips thinned in displeasure. His jaw worked as if he were trying to stop himself from rebuking his son. Visibly coming to decision, he sighed again. “Very well. We’ll have this discussion once you are sober. Go to your room. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

Before Felix had time to answer, his father left the room without a glance behind. Felix was left to stand alone here in the unfamiliar study. His mouth and throat were dry, and he didn’t know whether it was because of the alcohol or because of the situation. Had his father just threatened to _force_ him into a marriage? Had that just happened? The old man was right about one thing: Felix was too drunk to have this kind of conversation. He needed to sober up, needed his full wits if he wanted a chance to win this verbal sparring.

Slowly, he exited the study. He’d never really been drunk before, so he was quite unprepared for how the floor seemed to be undulating under his feet. He put his hand on the wall to steady himself. The bricks were rough under his palm. How could people actually like feeling this way?

He made his way towards his room, hoping he wouldn’t stumble upon Sylvain. He wasn’t sure how he’d react to the sight of his friend after what his father had told him. The bastard had enlisted Sylvain’s help to find him a bride. How sick was that? Felix’s only hope was that Sylvain had refused to help, which would be surprising given how much he liked Duke Rodrigue.

He reached his room without incident. Suddenly, nothing mattered more than finding his bed. The way the corridors blurred around him made him want to puke. He unlatched the door, dragged his feet to his bed, and let himself fall upon it fully dressed.

-

The morning after wasn’t better. In fact, the second Felix woke up, he wished he never had. A throbbing pain behind his closed eyes made him groan. His hands went to his tender head to massage his temples. His throat was as dry as plaster dust. He’d sweated through his clothes, making them stick to his skin uncomfortably. He _stank_ of alcohol.

He was never drinking again.

It took him a long time to get up, wash, and put on clean garments. The more he moved, the more his head hurt. He drank greedily from the pitcher of water, hoping the cool liquid would help. His stomach roiled dangerously, making him consider skipping breakfast. The thought of smelling food was sickening. A look in his looking glass showed him his greenish face and too-bright eyes. He didn’t only feel sick, he looked the part. Still, he knew he couldn’t use this to excuse himself from breakfast. His father was surely already in the dining hall, keeping the margrave company. If Felix didn’t show, his father would think it was because he had indeed been drinking too much the day before.

And so, Felix’s pride took over. He straightened his back, pushed his nausea to the back of his mind, and went to find his breakfast.

The dining hall was annoyingly noisy despite the hour. Early risers didn’t seem to care that others were just out of bed, quite a few certainly nursing headaches as bad as Felix’s. People chatted loudly. Cutlery banged against crockery in a terrible din. A couple of hunting dogs were barking from their corner of the room, begging for scraps. Worst, someone had brought their kid who was bawling. The shrill sound seemed to needle the exact spot where Felix felt his brain would explode.

He saw his father seated at the margrave’s table, and knew he couldn’t back out. His father seemed to spot him immediately the second he walked into the dining hall. Felix could feel his eyes pressing between his shoulder blades like a physical thing. He ignored it, turning his back in favour of sitting with Sylvain and the other squires. Two of them were looking as bad as Felix felt, but the rest prattled on as usual.

“Hey, Fe, you look good,” Sylvain teased, elbowing him gently.

Felix grunted. “Whatever.”

He barely ate. He managed to force a bit of bread down his throat and drank some more water. He was acutely aware of Sylvain’s presence beside him. His friend was talking with the other squires, joking and laughing as usual. He wasn’t behaving any differently. He didn’t point out any maid to Felix or try talking to him about girls they knew. He himself flirted with the female squires who, used to his antics, ignored him completely.

Felix had no other word to describe what he was feeling than _trapped_. He felt as if a vice was slowly closing in on him. He couldn’t turn or run, couldn’t brace against it. He wondered if this was how dying people felt. His time was running out.

Breakfast ended. Felix slipped out of the dining hall with the other squires to make his way to the training grounds. Despite his pounding head, he didn’t want to return to his bedroom to wallow in self-pity. It wasn’t his style. His helplessness in the face of the current situation angered him. He needed to take it out on someone or something. Perhaps if he sparred with enough people and destroyed enough training dummies, he’d feel better.

He sank into the familiar patterns of training. His body protested—his muscles were sore and his head throbbed abominably. For a while, his brain refused to abandon itself to the task. It kept replaying the conversation he’d had with his father, making him stumble and behave too rashly. His sparring companion, either uncaring or unnoticing, gave him no quarter. Her wooden sword hit his unprotected ribs and jabbed at his shoulders. Once, he nearly got whacked in the face, and it was only due to his finely-honed reflexes that he leaned back at the last second.

After a couple of hours, he was drenched in alcohol-smelling sweat. His training tunic stuck to his back. Strands of hair fell into his sweaty face. He even had to excuse himself a couple of times to drink some water because he felt like puking. Nevertheless, he preserved. The burning in his muscles drowned the voices in his head. By the time noon rolled by, Felix’s sole focus was on his training companion.

The trainer was about to call a pause for the noonday meal when Felix realised his father was observing from a distance. Duke Rodrigue stood out of the training yard, in the shadows thrown by an awning. His light blue cloak gave him away, and Felix recognized him immediately. His mind went immediately back to the past couple of hours, showing him again his stumbles and mistakes, knowing his father had caught them all.

Felix threw his training sword to the ground. He turned away from his female training companion towards one of the male squires. “Hey, before we eat, let’s do some brawling,” he suggested.

The young man raised an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Not yet. Come on.” His lips quirked in the ghost of a smile. “Or are you scared?”

The man chuckled. “No, of course not.” He handed his own training sword to someone else and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t come crying if I hurt you, Fraldarius. Two months ago, there wasn’t a scar on those pretty knuckles of yours.”

“And two months hence, there won’t be teeth left in your mouth if you keep talking to me like that. Bring it on.”

It went about as Felix had expected—he got thrown to the muddy ground more times than he could count in less than fifteen minutes. Brawling would never be his forte, but it was satisfying nonetheless. He got in a few good blows, his knuckles cracking hard against his opponent’s jaw. A kick catching him in the stomach sent him crashing to the ground with enough strength to steal the breath from his lungs. He kept his fists raised, ready to deflect any punches.

Then, someone was grabbing him by the arm and hauling him to his feet.

“Felix!” his father’s voice barked. “Get up, this is thoroughly unseemly.”

With his hair falling into his eyes, Felix had never seen his father approach. He swept the strands out of his face, panting hard. His training companion was standing to the side, looking uncertain. This annoyed Felix mightily. He yanked his arm free of his father’s grasp.

“Let’s not do that in public,” his father said in a quiet voice. He glanced at the rest of the training yard, at the squires, at the master-at-arms, then gently shoved Felix towards the exit. “You’re filthy.”

“How am I expected to train without getting filthy?” Felix hissed.

They stepped away from the training yard into a more secluded part of grounds. Felix crossed his arms over his chest, planting his feet firmly, sensing that they were about to have a fight again.

“You are supposed to train with a sword.”

“Brawling is a good skill to learn. What if you find yourself without a sword on the battlefield?”

“That’s why I’ve been telling you to focus on your study of magic. A mage is never without a weapon on the battlefield.”

Felix pulled a face. “No. Magic is not satisfying.”

Duke Rodrigue shook his head. “This hardly matters. We will be leaving on the morrow. I suggest you wash up and start packing your things. I want us to be ready at first lights. You should thank the margrave for his hospitality and bid Sylvain goodbye.”

Felix’s heart squeezed painfully tight in his chest at this news. Of course, when he’d heard his father was here, he had suspected it was to bring him back home. It seemed hardly possible that summer was already waning. He looked up at the sky with its grey clouds that promised rain. He didn’t want to go home. The Fraldarius manor hadn’t felt like home since Glenn had died. It was merely a house; four walls and a roof keeping the elements at bay. There was no warmth there anymore. Only crushing expectations awaited him.

Had he been the crybaby he used to be, he would have burst into tears then. He suddenly felt wrung out. His shoulders sagged. Arguing with his father seemed so senseless, so pointless. Even if he said he didn’t want to go back, his father could drag him home and there was nothing anybody could do against it. He’d only be one more noble son being difficult.

“Already?” he mumbled.

He didn’t like how his father’s tone gentled. “Yes. People believe this will be a harsh winter and an early autumn. I don’t want risking you getting caught here when the first snows fall.”

It sounded reasonable, logical. A year ago, Felix would have believed this. Today, he believed differently. True, the weather was getting colder, but it wasn’t the only reason why his father wanted him home as soon as possible. Felix suspected his father had been itching to know what his son had been up to all summer. Felix could imagine the old man sitting in his office, worrying, hoping there wouldn’t be any mishaps with a stable boy.

“You should be honest at least,” Felix blurted out. “You should at least tell me you want me to go home so you can marry me off.”

His father heaved out a sigh. “Felix, son, don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like _what_? Don’t argue? Don’t talk back? Don’t disobey? Or don’t like guys?”

Although there wasn’t anyone near enough to hear their conversation, his father nonetheless glanced around. He crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t be difficult.” Then, as if the next words pained him to say, his face tightened. “I know you can’t change who you are.”

It was such an unexpected thing to say that Felix’s retort died on his lips. Was he hearing things, or was his father sounding cautiously accepting? For a second, the fire of hatred that had been burning in his breast abated slightly. Could it be that his father understood?

But then, it made things worse. His father might understand, that didn’t mean he was ready to accept. He would never jeopardize his precious public image by allowing Felix to do whatever he pleased. He would go against Felix’s wishes, knowing it was wrong, simply so his family didn’t look bad.

“I shall let you mull on this,” his father continued, voice still soft. “We’ll talk more later. Perhaps I could drop by your room so you can tell me what you did over the summer?”

The attempt at being friendly fell flat. It landed between the two of them like a dead thing, poisoning the air with its noxious fumes. Felix was insulted by this offer. No, actually, he was _hurt_ by it. Weeks ago, his father had told him he wished he’d died in Glenn’s stead, and now, he was trying to be friendly? How could he be so thoughtlessly cruel? Was this a kind of olive branch, then? Did he expect Felix to simply forgive what had been said? Did he believe they could move on from that?

Felix wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Whatever,” he said.

He turned on his heels and marched away, acutely aware of his father’s burning eyes on him.

-

Packing hurt. Mechanically, Felix pulled clothes out the drawers to move them to his travelling trunk. The summer garments were already out of season—even if he’d wanted to stay, he would have had to send word home for his winter clothes. He packed his things, refusing to think, refusing to dwell on the despair gnawing at his soul. For the moment, all he had the strength for was moving about his room.

Except for clothing, he hadn’t brought much. He left out a set of trousers and tunic for the morrow. Once the drawers and armoire were empty, he added to the top of the pile the few knickknacks and books he’d brought. He’d only have his nightclothes and hairbrush to pack before he was ready to go.

It was only when he grabbed the handful of hair ribbons from the vanity that an idea blossomed in his mind. He looked down at the silky pieces of cloth he’d been using to tie his hair back. There was one missing amongst those he’d brought, one that had found its way between the pages of a book. Felix closed his fingers over the ribbons, thoughts racing. He had one last chance to show his father that he wouldn’t do his bidding. There was one thing he could do, if he were brave enough to seize it.

He hesitated, considered his options, then firmed his resolve. At this point, being disinherited was the least of his worries. In fact, he might even welcome it. It seemed to be the only option that wouldn’t end with him feeling choking to death.

He threw the ribbons into the trunk and left his room to make his way across the keep. As he walked, he could feel his resolve strengthening. He was doing the right thing, he knew that. If his father wouldn’t be moved by words, then Felix would move him by acting. Surely, if the old man _saw_ that Felix wouldn’t change, he would have to accept it. He was obstinate and pigheaded, but Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius wasn’t stupid. (He was also considered to be fair, but Felix supposed being magnanimous with other people came easier to him than being fair to his son.)

He stopped in front of Miklan’s bedroom door. He hadn’t heard that the older Gautier sibling had been feeling better after his wound reopened, so Felix supposed he would be here. He knocked, then strode in without being invited to do so.

“Miklan, I need your help,” he offered in way of explanation for his intrusion.

Miklan, who’d apparently been reading, scowled at him. “And that permits you to walk in uninvited?” He straightened from his slouch on his bed, wincing slightly at the pain in his side. “What do you want?”

Felix came closer to the bed and stood there. He was dimly embarrassed at the fact that he’d boldly announced he _needed help_. It wasn’t like him to admit such a thing, especially not to someone he didn’t particularly like.

But time was running out, damn it, and he didn’t have time for niceties or for pretenses. He squared his shoulders and said: “I don’t know if you heard, but my father is here.”

A smile appeared slowly on Miklan’s face. He looked better than he had yesterday—there was colour to his face and the feverish heat to his eyes was gone. It once again made him dangerous, a redoubtable adversary that didn’t hesitate to go for low blows. “Ah, yes, I had heard something of the sort. To be honest, I’ve been expecting you.”

Felix stiffened. “What? Why?”

“He wants to drag you home, doesn’t he?” At Felix’s reluctant nod, Miklan added: “That’s what I thought. And you come to me hoping I can help.”

Felix felt the need to explain. “It’s not only that.” He gulped, like saying the words out loud would make them truer. “He says he’ll marry me off the second we’re back at the manor. He even enlisted Sylvain’s help to find a suitable girl for me.”

Miklan burst into laughter. “Oh, poor little Fraldarius! You’re being forced into a marriage, like hundreds of people before you! Cry me a river!”

Felix’s face flushed in embarrassment. His hands tightened into fists. “Fuck you! It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny, brat.”

“Will you help me or not?”

“What do you expect me to do? Talk to your father? Do you think he’d listen to me? He hates me to start with. I hold no sway whatsoever over him.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “I don’t want you to talk to him, moron. I want you to show him he cannot change who I am.”

Miklan frowned, apparently confused. “You’ll have to make more sense than that. How do you want me to show him anything?” Then, light dawned on him. His eyebrows climbed up his forehead and he whistled in appreciation. “You want him to walk in on us.”

It sounded so crass and dumb when Miklan said it. Felix’s cheeks burned. “You’re welcome to offer a better alternative. I’m leaving on the morrow, so you’ll have to come up with it quick.”

“And what’s in it for me? Why should I get deeper into Duke Rodrigue’s bad graces?”

“Does it matter? Do you care?”

Miklan snorted. “I care if he decides to tear me apart with that nasty magic of his for ruining his kid, yeah.”

“He won’t do that. It isn’t like him to act in anger. Knowing him, he’ll just walk out of the room, too pissed to say anything.”

Felix observed Miklan, uncertain of what was going through his mind. He barely knew the guy, after all, and reading his facial expressions was difficult. He couldn’t tell whether the older man would help him or not. He stood there, refusing to fidget or to show any more impatience. Miklan wouldn’t be hurried and Felix certainly wouldn’t move him to his cause by being annoying. Still, refraining from tapping his foot was difficult. Felix could almost feel the grains of sand dribbling down the hourglass as he waited. The afternoon was already well underway. In a matter of hours, his father would retire to get ready to make the trip back home. Barring a natural disaster, nothing would stop him from leaving. The window of time Felix had was incredibly narrow.

If only he had more time to _think_ , to come up with a better solution. Planning had never been his forte, however. He was a man of action, not one for endless ponderings.

“Very well,” Miklan said slowly. There was a nasty little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “That might be fun. And, after all, you might get disowned. I hope you’re ready to come back to me snivelling for my help once again.”

Felix scoffed. “Don’t count on it, Miklan. I don’t snivel.”

“You should, you’re pretty when you cry.”

“And you’re always ugly.”

Miklan laughed. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He grinned. “Fetch me when you’re ready for your little performance, then.”

-

The afternoon dragged on slowly. Felix allowed Sylvain to talk his ear off about some noblewomen he fancied, all the while pretending he didn’t know his friend was doing his father’s bidding. He listened distractedly, not carrying about lady this or lady that and their attributes. A cold sleet had started falling, so they remained indoors, cozy by the fire in the hearth in Sylvain’s bedroom. Felix wished he could bask in Sylvain’s presence, perhaps soak up a bit more of his bright heat to keep him warm during the winter months. He would honestly miss his friend, but he was too distracted by what he had planned to do to enjoy their last hours together.

A part of him was angry that Sylvain had agreed to do Duke Rodrigue’s bidding without talking about it with Felix first. Sylvain spoke with insistence and knowledge like a man on a mission. He seemed determined to pique Felix’s attention on at least one woman. Watching his animated face and his bright eyes made Felix’s heart hurt. The firelight gave his hair a coppery colour and turned his skin ruddy. Sometimes, he’d poke Felix or touch his arm to get his attention, and the point of contact would tingle warmly for minutes afterwards. Felix wished he could simply blurt out the truth, simply tell him not to bother, that he’d never be interested in those women, that he was interested in _Sylvain_ and no one else.

But it would ruin everything while Felix was willing to ruin one thing at the time only.

During suppertime, Felix put the first part of his plan into motion. He told his father he was willing to talk to him later in the evening, at his convenience. He made sure to keep his tone neutral—his father was wily, he might detect anything from his voice if Felix weren’t careful. The last thing Felix wanted was for his father the suspect something was afoot. Instead, his father looked stupidly relieved that they’d get a chance to put things right.

That hopeful, relieved look on his father’s face made Felix yearn for the days before Glenn’s death. Duke Rodrigue and his youngest son had never been that close, but there had been respect between them. There had been a sort of camaraderie, if a little stiff at times. Felix had liked and trusted his father, had considered him a good man. He had seen his father as someone noble, gentle, fair, and considerate. Talking to him had been possible without it turning into a shouting match. They had enjoyed meals together over which they’d bantered and even made jokes.

Perhaps if Glenn were still alive, things would be better. Perhaps Felix’s father would be more open-minded, kinder, more willing to let him do as he pleased since he already had one son to fit into the noble mould of Fódlan society. As it stood, with only Felix left to bear the Fraldarius surname, Duke Rodrigue couldn’t afford for him to be different. If Felix didn’t marry, if Felix didn’t have children, his name as well as his Crest were as good as forfeit. The major Fraldarius line would die out with him.

And Felix didn’t care. The ancient, Crest-bearing blood was thinning with each generation. Soon, there would be very few families with Crests and, in a matter of decades, none would be left. What did it matter if the Fraldarius Crest died a little sooner? Who truly wanted such a burden, anyway?

After supper, Felix quickly excused himself to return to his room. He gave the place a cursory glance to be sure he hadn’t forgotten to pack anything. Without his stuff lying about, the bedroom was once more a guest room, no longer belonging to him. He wondered, after tonight, if he’d ever come back. The thought that he might not hurt more than he’d like to admit. He doubted his father would bar him access to the Gautier lands, knowing he’d have to explain _why_ if he did, but he might make it difficult.

Of course, if he got disinherited, things would be much simpler. Part of Felix longed for that alternative. He just wished to be free to do as he pleased. He didn’t want anyone expecting anything of him.

With a sigh, he once again ventured into the corridors of the keep. They were mostly empty at this hour, for almost everybody was still in the dining hall. His path crossed that of a few servants and a handful of soldiers doing their rounds. Nobody paid him any mind as he made his way towards Miklan’s apartments.

As he walked, he hesitantly considered the older man. He wondered at what they had. Were they lovers now? They had slept together only a couple of times, but Felix had no doubt it would have happened again if he had stayed here longer. Lovers didn’t seem like the right word to describe their relationship. Lovers were couples in stories who eloped together because they fell in love and couldn’t be married. There was no love between Miklan and him. There wasn’t even friendship. Perhaps there was respect. At least there was understanding. As Miklan had so adroitly put it, they were the two discarded brothers. They understood what it was to be left behind, to be overlooked for someone better.

Felix had no idea what he felt for Sylvain’s brother. Miklan was a terrible human being. He was a brute, a violent man who didn’t hesitate to lash out even against weaker people. He probably kicked puppies and stole candies from children too. Despite that, there was no denying the fact that he had been kind of… _nice_ to Felix, in his own troubling way. He hadn’t rejected him outright. Hell, he had _listened_ to his woes. Sure, it was mostly to mock him afterwards, but he still had done it. He had showed more empathy for his troubles than Felix’s own father had. Therefore, Felix found himself kind of attracted to Miklan. His honest way of speaking, his casual disregard of everybody’s opinion, his devil-may-care attitude were attractive. Felix enjoyed the cruel banter they exchanged. He enjoyed the challenges Miklan posed. He was entertained by the older man’s twisted mind. Felix still hated him, would always hate him for the way he’d treated Sylvain, but his hatred had been tempered.

He really had no word to describe what Miklan and he had. Certainly it was for the best, and it certainly didn’t matter in the long run.

This time, instead of barging in, Felix knocked at the door and waited to be invited in. He couldn’t help the little thrill of excitement coursing through his body as he asked: “So, ready?”

Miklan was just finishing lacing up his boots. He looked up and grinned. “Of course. I made sure to look extra disreputable.”

Felix could see that; the clothes he wore were clearly old and threadbare, even stained at some places. He hadn’t shaved for a while, which left a bristly red stubble over his cheeks and chin. The sword belt at his hips was made of old, cracked leather. The laces of his boots were frayed. His hair wasn’t combed, though it mercifully looked clean enough.

“My father’s going to be thrilled,” Felix said sarcastically. For some reason, Miklan’s appearance made him hot under the collar. What was wrong with him, getting worked up because of a guy looking dirty? Or, actually, it wasn’t quite that. He realised it as their gazes met—it was the intensity in Miklan’s eyes that got to him. Even from across the room, Felix could tell Miklan wanted him.

Miklan chuckled. He got closer and seized Felix’s face in both hands, angling his head up so they didn’t break eye contact. “You look to be thrilled yourself. Maybe I’m not as ugly as you pretend, eh?”

The tight grip on his face should have been frightening or at least uncomfortable. And it was, a little of both. It was just a shade shy of painful. Miklan was showing him he could hurt him oh so easily. If he were to merely tighten his hold, he could break bones. But he didn’t. Felix knew he wouldn’t, and that certainty was nearly as heady as the power Miklan demonstrated.

“Your ugliness is part of your appeal, I suppose,” Felix said. He managed to sound casual, like he wasn’t affected by the other man’s presence.

Another chuckle. “A _ppeal_? My, you really want my help if you’re willing to compliment me, little Fraldarius. Keep stroking my ego, and I might actually forgive you for using me to hurt your daddy.”

Felix rolled his eyes. He grasped the front of Miklan’s tunic, digging his nails into the flimsy fabric. “Don’t pretend you won’t enjoy it.”

“Well, it is always funny to knock down a peg or two a haughty prick like your father. I wish mine were as easily humbled.”

“Hmm? Your father wouldn’t care walking in on us?”

Miklan shrugged one shoulder. He traced Felix’s bottom lip with his thumb, eyes following the movement avidly. “He’s never been one to be easily offended. He doesn’t care what people around him do as long as we do our duty. He’d probably just stare before ordering me to go kill some Srengi bastards.”

“Sounds great.”

“Yeah, sounds great,” Miklan replied sarcastically. He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “I’m sure you would have loved to get beaten regularly as a child just so you can fuck who you want later on.”

“All right, not so great, then,” Felix amended. He reached up tentatively and let his forefinger touch the scar that barred Miklan’s face. It was thick and lumpy, uneven. “Srengi bastards, am I right?” he said.

“Srengi bastards,” Miklan approved. He allowed the contact for a brief moment before shaking himself. He released Felix’s jaw and pushed him towards the door. “Come on, better get things moving if you don’t want your father wondering where you are.”

Felix grunted in annoyance at being pushed, but nodded nonetheless. He knew his father went to bed early, so it meant he would drop by soon after supper to talk. What a joke it would be if they missed each other. He hurried his steps, the idea making him uneasy. It was his last chance, he couldn’t squander it. Miklan followed him obediently, exuding an air of amused smugness that annoyed Felix—the bastard was enjoying this a little bit too much.

They’d barely reached his room that Miklan’s hands were on him again. He seized Felix’s hips and hurried him inside, slamming the door behind him with a kick. Felix didn’t have time to protest that he was spun about and kissed until his lungs screamed for a breath. He didn’t care—Miklan’s urgency made him dizzy. It went to his head far more than the lack of air did. He wrapped his arms around Miklan’s neck and kissed him back, biting at his lips and shoving his tongue in his mouth.

Felix’s back hit the nearest wall. He hardly noticed, could hardly focus on anything except for the heat rising steadily inside of him. It felt as if Miklan were touching him everywhere, leaving a hot trail of desire in his hands’ wake. When their hips pushed together and Felix realised the other man was hard, it tore a moan out of him.

“Get on the bed,” Felix urged between breaths, pulling back from the kiss. He shoved at Miklan’s chest. “Come on.”

Miklan laughed, apparently unbothered at being ordered about. He sat on the bed and tugged at Felix’s arm until he came closer. With him sitting and Felix standing, they were nearly of a height. Miklan’s eyes were dark with lust and hunger. He carded his fingers through Felix’s hair, pulling slightly at the strands. The ponytail came undone under the relentless assault, the white ribbon fluttering down to the floor. He twisted the black tresses around his fist. The slight pull it created on Felix’s scalp was nearly painful, just shy of it. The controlled violence Miklan demonstrated once again made Felix shiver with want.

He climbed on top of the other, straddling his hips and grabbing his jaw to exchange another brutal kiss. There was more biting to it than anything else. Felix’s lips burned from the rough treatment. He was panting shallowly, not quite able to take in a full breath from around the lump of arousal burning in his throat. Miklan grabbed his butt, forcing him ever closer. From where their chests were pressed together, Felix could feel Miklan’s madly beating heart.

“Lie back,” Felix ordered, pushing on Miklan’s shoulders for emphasis.

Miklan’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me? I don’t get on my back for anyone.” When Felix insisted, he grunted in annoyance before flopping back down.

Felix leaned over him, grinning smugly. “You do, for me.” His unbound hair fell around Miklan’s face, obscuring everything around. “I could reward you nicely for it.”

Miklan snorted. He once again seized Felix’s hips, his thumbs digging hard into his hipbones. “You couldn’t ride me for a minute before getting tired.”

“Perhaps,” Felix allowed in a low voice, “but I’d get better with practice. I do have good stamina.” He let his hand trail down lower, past the wound on Miklan’s side, until it reached the front of his trousers. He squeezed, enjoying the little wince this tore from Miklan. “You seem to like the idea despite what you said.”

“I might allow it, just because it’d mean I’d get a good look at your face. You make the most ridiculously hot faces when you’re getting fucked.”

Heat rose to Felix’s cheeks at this. It was an odd compliment that made his insides twist pleasantly. It was even better knowing that Miklan wasn’t all talk. With the way Felix’s hand was wrapped around his dick through his trousers, he could feel it grow harder as he spoke.

The sound of the door unlatching caused them both to freeze. In the excitement of the moment, Felix had completely forgotten _why_ they were here in the first place. His heart missed a beat. His eyes went wide. Miklan tensed beneath him, hands squeezing him tighter. (At this point, Felix had no idea whether it was because Miklan wanted to throw him off him, or pull him closer.)

“Felix, I—”

Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius’ words died out. A shocked silence fell in the room.

Although he’d expected this, Felix nonetheless froze at the sound of his father’s voice. For half a second, panic seized him. What was he doing? What was wrong with him? Embarrassment filled him.

It was Miklan’s firm grip on him that stilled the terror. His eyes focused on the man beneath him. Miklan had one quirked eyebrow and his expression was clearly challenging. Doubtless he’d sensed Felix’s panic and had thought he’d bolt before seeing his plan come to fruition. Felix couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t lose face in front of Miklan, and he especially wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of appearing embarrassed by his arrival.

His decision reached, calmness suffused him. Felix offered Miklan a knowing glance, then turned to look at his father over his shoulder.

His old man stood by the half-closed door, eyes huge and face pale. If Felix had still cared for him, he might have been worried at how utterly colourless his cheeks had gone. His body was stiff, making him look like a deer who’d just caught scent of a predator.

Triumph, as addictive as any liquor, surged inside Felix. He carefully removed his hand from Miklan’s crotch, making sure the movement attracted his father’s attention. A spasm tugged at the corner of his father’s mouth, as if he’d been dealt a blow.

“Ah, I forgot you were supposed to come,” Felix said. He didn’t care that he sounded a little breathless. “Can you come back later?”

He wondered at the picture his father was seeing, wondered what was going through his head as he stared, aghast. Felix made sure to look utterly relaxed, like he had all the time in the world and would resume where they had been interrupted the second his father stepped out.

“Felix,” Duke Rodrigue finally managed to say. The one word seemed to take a lot of effort to get out.

“Yes?” Felix said, quirking an eyebrow. From under him, he caught the sound of Miklan stifling a laugh.

His father’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. He took half a step backwards. His hand still hadn’t let go of the latch of the door. If he remained there much longer, someone was bound to walk by the room in the corridor and inquire as to what was happening inside. Felix would not have minded if he’d known the curious person couldn’t be Sylvain.

Before Felix could find something to say that would make his father leave, Miklan made his move. He sat up, wrapping an arm around Felix’s shoulders as if he were afraid he might topple off him. Felix found himself with his face pressed into his shoulder. He hadn’t expected Miklan would intervene—he hadn’t told him not to, and he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake.

“Duke Rodrigue, sir, nice of you to stop by. Want me to come back later? Felix and I are busy, but we’ve got all our lives in front of us. I don’t mind giving you some time with him.” Miklan had spoken without hesitation, like he had planned to say just that. There was a lewd grin on his face and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

Felix understood the genius of his comment in a flash. The way he’d spoken, it was as if he’d said they’d keep seeing each other _for the rest of their lives_ , like Felix would cheat on whatever wife his father imposed on him. He’d never do that, but his father didn’t need to know. He twisted in Miklan’s embrace, needing to see his father’s expression: the old man looked about to be sick. To Felix’s surprise, there was even a greenish tinge to his face. His blue eyes kept jumping from Felix to Miklan. There was dismay and betrayal in his posture, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—like he couldn’t quite believe Felix would put him through this.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” Felix said. He kept his tone light, like his father had merely walked in on him reading. “I’m rather busy at the moment.”

His father muttered something too low for Felix to catch. The staring was starting to get on his nerves. Couldn’t his father go somewhere else to have a mental breakdown? Felix didn’t want to be witness to that.

Finally, his father found the strength to utter a few low words: “Oh, Felix, what have you done?”

Then, without another look behind, he left the room stiffly. He even paused to close the door softly. The click of the latch catching sounded loud in the otherwise silent bedroom.

Miklan burst into laughter the second the sound of footsteps had receded down the hallway. “Ah! His face! I thought he was having an attack! Did you see that? He was green!”

Felix didn’t know what to answer. He had no pity for his father, but what remained of fondness for the one who had raised him hurt a little nonetheless. The trick he had played on him hadn’t been cruel, but perhaps it had been unwise. At this point, Felix really couldn’t bring himself to care. What was done was done. There was no going back. He had made it clear to his father that he wouldn’t play by his rules.

He heaved a long sigh. “Ah, it was to be expected. I suppose he’ll be rushing to the latrines to throw his supper up,” he said bitterly.

Miklan seized his face and forced him to look at him. “Who cares, you stupid brat? You got the message across, that’s all that matters.”

He was looking proud of what they had done. It wasn’t often anyone managed to rattle a man as unflappable as Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius, after all, and he was certainly the type of lord Miklan detested.

“Do you think he’ll reconsider his idea of forcing me to marry?” Felix asked.

“How would I know?” Miklan snorted, then grinned. “What does it matter if he does? We could arrange a little deception so your wife walks in on us too. She might get the message if he doesn’t.”

Felix threw him a sharp look. “No. I won’t cheat on anyone. I’ll just have to make sure I don’t get married in the first place.”

Miklan contemplated this rebuff in silence, eyes uncertain. He seemed a bit unsettled that Felix would refuse to cheat on an unwanted spouse, as if it was something he had never considered.

“Anyway,” Felix continued, grabbing Miklan by the collar and tugging him closer until their lips nearly touched, “If my father really thinks I’ll allow this to happen, he’s stupider than I believed. He’ll probably think I’m too soiled to foist upon an innocent girl, anyway.”

Miklan regained his aplomb. He grinned. One of his hands cradled Felix’s jaw while the other one pressed into the small of his back. “Good. I like that my filth’s now upon you. That’ll make all those stupid squires sniffing around you think twice.”

This startled a snort out of Felix. He grinded his hips against Miklan, glad to realise he was still hard despite everything. “Oh? Don’t tell me you’re possessive?” For some reason, he liked this idea. There was power in having someone dependant on you, possessive of you. Nobody had ever been dependant on him—it had always been the opposite.

“Once I sink my claws into something,” Miklan hissed, digging his fingernails into Felix’s skin ever so slightly, “they’re mine.”

The sharp pinprick of pain sent of bolt of arousal down Felix’s guts faster than anything else had ever had. He was getting hard, his father already pushed at the back of his mind. He wouldn’t see Miklan again for a long time, possibly all winter, and the thought that _this_ could be out of his reach made him desperate. He tried to temper it a little, appalled at the thought of appearing too needy.

“Show it to me, then,” Felix challenged in a low voice.

-

Sylvain said the next morning: “Oh, dear, your father and you look tired. Did you talk late into the night?”

It was very early—the sun had barely crested over the distant mountain range. The air was frigid. There was a bit of frost on the yellowing grass. The horses seemed to steam, white vapour rising from their flesh and nostrils. The grooms were saddling the mounts while a couple of servants were piling luggage and victuals on a wagon.

Felix, huddling in his too-thin cloak, glanced at his father. The older man was standing on the other side of the courtyard, distractedly surveying the packing progress. Around him were his retinue, men and women in Fraldarius colours ready to escort their duke and his son back home. He indeed looked tired, with shadows around his eyes and his mouth pulled in a tight line. His face was pale and his expression withdrawn. Despite standing with his back ramrod straight, there was no hiding the slight rounding of his shoulders.

“No, not really,” Felix said, not wanting to lie to his friend. He couldn’t very well tell that he looked tired because he spent the night getting fucked, while his father looked tired because he’d probably spent the night thinking about what he’d stumbled upon.

Sylvain smiled. He looked unbothered by the encroaching cold. He wore a short-sleeved tunic and didn’t even have a cloak on. His hair was messier than usual, meaning he’d just managed to roll out of bed to bid his friend goodbye.

Felix’s heart constricted in his chest. Sylvain and he wouldn’t see each other for a few months. Sending letters would soon become impossible. There would be no news for the longest time. Felix would miss him as he did every year.

He wondered if he would miss Miklan too.

His eyes trailed towards the keep. Miklan had sneaked out of his bedroom no more than an hour ago, grinning and almost looking like he’d wish to be seen. Felix had caught no more than an hour of sleep. In between rounds, Miklan’s sleeping presence in his bed had been too odd for Felix to easily let his guard down. This morning, his whole body hurt from how rough Miklan had been. There had been a certain meanness to his attitude, and something else that Felix couldn’t put his finger on. Whatever it was, it had made the whole thing more pleasurable.

So yes, he’d probably miss Miklan, but for different reasons entirely. He was going to miss his roughness and his gruff attitude and his blunt way of speaking. He would miss his uncompromising sincerity and the way he took none of Felix’s shit. He would miss the challenges he posed and the understanding glances he gave. Most of all, Felix would miss being someone else’s equal. Miklan was a terrible human being, but he never made Felix feel like he was nothing. He made him feel young and naïve and dumb at times, but never like he was nothing more than another person’s replacement. _Glenn’s_ replacement.

Felix shuddered.

Seeing this, Sylvain wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Ah, don’t worry, Fe! Winter will be over in no time! I’ll try sending you a gift for the New Year, okay?”

Felix couldn’t stop himself from leaning into his friend’s warmth. “Don’t bother. Just don’t die during winter.”

“Die? I have no intention of dying!” Sylvain chuckled and released him. His smile was gentle and his eyes soft when said: “Try to take it easy, all right? I miss Glenn too, but beating yourself over it won’t bring him back. Besides!” he added, grinning widely, “Next time we see each other might be at your wedding!”

The comment was like a punch to the guts. Felix couldn’t answer right away for the wave of anger cresting inside him. He had to take a few calming breaths before the red mist of rage cleared in his head. This wasn’t Sylvain’s fault, he told himself. Sylvain had absolutely no idea that Felix wasn’t interested in marrying any girl, no matter who she was. His help had been enlisted by Duke Rodrigue, a man he adored, so of course he would do his best. He thought he was helping both father and son. He wasn’t doing it out of malice, far from it.

Felix swallowed and said with a shake of his head: “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Sylvain chuckled. “All right, all right, I was just kidding. I’d be too sad to see my little brother married off before me, anyway!”

Felix forced a little smile on his lips. “Indeed.” Then he added a somewhat hopefully: “I cannot really imagine myself being married. Can you?”

He eagerly looked up at Sylvain as he waited an answer. His friend looked slightly surprised by the question. His face grew pensive while he mulled this over. Felix hoped, with every fibre of his body, that Sylvain would say _no_. Why he hoped for such an answer, he couldn’t quite tell.

“That would be weird, I admit,” Sylvain said with a laugh. “When I was your age, I kept staring at girls, but I’ve never seen you show any interest in any of them.” He winked. “Either you’re more subtle than I ever was, or you’re still a bit too young for that.”

“Or maybe I’m just not interested,” Felix blurted out.

“Nah. Most likely, you just haven’t found a girl interesting for you. Knowing you, she’ll have to be the best swordswoman in the realm, and you won’t marry her until she bests you in combat!”

“Felix,” Duke Rodrigue said, cutting short their conversation. “Come. We’re leaving.”

Sylvain looked a little crestfallen at this. He pulled Felix into a hug, squeezing him tight against him. Felix returned the embrace eagerly, resting his forehead against his friend’s broad shoulder. For a short moment, he had a feeling of what heaven might be like. Sylvain hugging him made the world feel right, made Felix feel right. It seemed to realign everything that had been wrong. For that blissful instant, nothing else mattered.

“Felix,” his father said again, more sharply.

It wasn’t impatience that was making his father short-tempered, it was the fact that Felix was clinging to a man. It didn’t matter that Felix had been clinging to this particular man for as long as he could remember. Their platonic embrace had to look different to his father’s eyes. It was no longer innocent to him.

He stepped away from Sylvain regretfully. Sylvain smiled, patted his head as if he were five rather than fifteen, then gave a little bow to Duke Rodrigue.

“Safe journey home, Duke Rodrigue,” he said with a smile. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

Felix’s father nodded. “Thank you, Sylvain. Pass along my good wishes to your father.”

“I will.” Sylvain gave Felix one last smile before stepping away from the waiting horses.

Felix mounted his horse with his heart in his mouth. He hated leaving Sylvain, hated having to go home.

Insanely, he wished Miklan had been brave enough to bid him goodbye publicly. They had parted with a bruising kiss this morning. Miklan had slapped his butt and told him to come back to him after he’d gotten disinherited. He was so sure this would happen, it almost made Felix wonder if he were in on a secret. Whatever had passed between them during the summer was something Felix would miss. Sleeping with Miklan had been as demanding as training, and nearly as rewarding. At least it had kept his mind occupied.

They small convoy dressed in blue colours left the courtyard. In half an hour, they were down the long winding road with the keep looming high on its hill behind them. The sun was rising higher, warming the air just enough to make the chill tolerable. Felix kept glancing over his shoulder at the grey stone walls. Leaving was never easy, but it seemed extra painful on this late summer day. He kept telling himself he’d be back next spring, that he hadn’t seen the last of the Gautier men.

But the golden years of his youth were well behind him now. He’d turn sixteen in the winter, which meant he’d have to shoulder more and more responsibilities. He doubted he would once again spend another carefree summer with Sylvain—or even with anyone else.

The road meandered through a thick forest of coniferous trees. The convoy advanced mostly in silence. At the head of the column was the captain of the Fraldarius household guard. Following behind was Duke Rodrigue, then Felix. Closing the march were five guards as well as the cart carrying their belongings. Not once did Felix’s father turn to glance at him. He sat his horse rigidly, like a first-time rider. Felix stared at the back of his head, wondering at the kind of lecture he’d receive once at home. There wouldn’t be one on the road where their guards could overheard. His father wasn’t the kind of parent to remonstrate his children in public.

Felix sighed—the silence, heavy as it was, was still better than having to argue. As his horse followed the path meekly, he allowed himself to reflect on the past months. He had left the Fraldarius manor in a huff, cheek stinging from his father’s slap and mind reeling from his terrible words. There had been only rage in his heart then. It had spurred him on more than anything else could ever have. Sylvain’s presence had been a balm on his aching heart.

And, well, Miklan’s influence had also helped. _Choosing_ to sleep with him had been a sort of liberation. Felix had _chosen_ to do this. He had weighed his options and decided to go with this one. He didn’t regret it. Sure, there had been downsides to it—first and foremost being the fact that discovery meant the ruination of his friendship with Sylvain. Since it hadn’t happened, Felix decided that this venture had been a success. Miklan had been exactly as Felix had expected. The only surprise was that they had connected on a certain level. This, Felix hadn’t expected.

The two discarded, useless brothers, Miklan had called them. An apt description indeed. Miklan had understood Felix far more than anyone could have because of this. Understanding wasn’t something Felix had thought he needed. And it had felt good. Miklan had seen him for who he was: Felix Fraldarius, a brat who just wanted to fool around. He’d had no expectations of him. He hadn’t wanted Felix to behave in a certain way, hadn’t wanted him to be Glenn. The only times Miklan had ever brought up Glenn were when he wanted to annoy Felix. Hell, he’d even said that Felix was better than Glenn. Nobody had ever said that.

All in all, it seemed like this part of his summer had been a success. Merely thinking about everything he had done with Miklan was enough to get him hot under the collar. The older man was a great lover, unapologetic and demanding. He had been a rough teacher, but it was the kind of teaching that Felix took to the best.

He had truly ruined any potential lovers Felix might have.

Not that he complained.

There was only one thing he wished he’d had time to do before leaving: ask Miklan about the hair ribbon in his book. It had completely slipped his mind. He had been wondering about this since he’d seen it. Most likely, it meant nothing—Miklan had needed something to mark his page in the book, and he’d grabbed the first thing he had at hand. Felix _hoped_ it meant nothing.

-

The voyage home was spent nearly in silence. Felix’s father talked to their retinue, exchanging pleasantries with the men and women easily. He exchanged only a few polite words with his son, which was fine by Felix. His father’s mere presence was enough to rile him up. Whenever their gazes met, Felix’s hackles would rise. He kept expecting a rebuke, a sign that his old man was angry at what happened with Miklan. Nothing came. Felix wasn’t naïve enough to believe this was the end of it—his father was simply waiting until they were alone. He wouldn’t go as far as saying he dreaded the upcoming lecture, only that he wished it were over with.

It was only when they were about an hour from reaching the Fraldarius manor that Duke Rodrigue finally spoke up. The Gautier territories were long behind them. Traveling further south meant the weather had turned warmer. Here, the leaves in the trees were still a vibrant green. The air didn’t have that chill yet that announced autumn. People went about without a cloak.

“Ah, Felix, I forgot to tell you,” Duke Rodrigue began, “Dimitri will be staying with us for the winter.”

Felix, who had been contemplating a distant knot of farmers working their field, jerked in his saddle. This was so unexpected that he physically reacted to the news. He turned to stare at his father wide eyed. “What?!”

“Yes. His recovery since the attack hasn’t been optimal. His uncle believes he should rest away from the distractions of court. He says spending time in the countryside would help.”

The day, that had been bright a minute ago, seemed to darken. Felix’s mood plummeted to new depths. It wasn’t fair. He’d had a nice summer—why did Dimitri have to ruin it all? He’d barely thought about his old friend. In fact, he’d been doing his very best not to think about anything of consequence. Now, it felt as if reality was slamming back into him hard. The mention of Dimitri’s name reminded Felix that they were no longer friends. It reminded him that Glenn was dead. It reminded him that only a big, cold, empty house awaited him.

“Fuck,” Felix said, not caring about the reproving look his father threw him. “I don’t want to see him.”

“You will see him, and you will be courteous to him. I don’t want any of your nonsense about Glenn’s death being his fault. Surely, you’re mature enough to realise none of this can be Dimitri’s fault.”

The household guards were making an excellent effort at pretending not to listen to their conversation. Surely, not one of them had ever heard their duke speak so sharply.

“I’ll do whatever I damn please,” Felix retorted. He pulled on the reins of his horse, forcing the beast to stop in its tracks. The column of guards behind him pulled to a stop too. “You can send me back to Margrave Gautier if that’s what you wish, I don’t care.” He tilted his chin up arrogantly.

“This was your last visit north, Felix. Now, let’s move.”

Felix had no choice but to follow the movement of the horses getting into motion again. He gritted his teeth, feeling like he would throw up. He didn’t want to see Dimitri, didn’t want to have to confront him. Surely, Dimitri would want to talk about Glenn, and Felix was nowhere near ready to pick at that healing wound.

They’d almost reached the manor when Felix realised something: not once had his father made any mention of disinheriting him. If he insisted that Felix behaved with Dimitri, it certainly meant that he had no intention of kicking him out. No, the old man was too much of a coward to do that while Dimitri was living with them. He wouldn’t want to risk him asking awkward questions. He wouldn’t want to look bad in his precious Dimitri’s eyes.

Miklan had been wrong.

And Felix had never been bitterer about anything else.

* * *

Two years had led to this. Two years.

Felix wondered why he was surprised.

Conand tower loomed tall above them, its peak seemingly reaching for the gloomy sky. The wind had picked on their march from the monastery. It wasn’t cold, only uncomfortable.

Everybody agreed that it was a shitty mission, and especially shitty of Lady Rhea to send Sylvain to kill his brother. Felix wasn’t of that opinion. To him, it was fitting that Sylvain should put an end to that madness. After everything he’d suffered at the hand of his brother, having someone else kill him would have been a theft, pure and simple. Sylvain _deserved_ that vengeance.

As for Felix himself, he wasn’t sure what he felt.

The news, received two years ago in the form of a birthday letter sent by Sylvain, saying Miklan had finally been exiled hadn’t exactly been a surprise. Felix had sensed it had been a long time coming—Margrave Gautier had been keeping his oldest son around only until he sensed Sylvain was ready to take the reins. Despite that, a strange sense of loss had overcome Felix. He hadn’t liked Miklan, had never ever come close to it, but he hadn’t _hated_ him. That connection they had achieved over their summer spent together was something Felix couldn’t deny. The understanding Miklan had showed him, the odd respect, the gruff companionship, they were things Felix had never found with anyone else. Miklan being exiled meant they’d never see each other again.

And they hadn’t. Until now.

Felix tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Professor Byleth was talking to the class, telling them her plan on how to take the tower. Dimitri, that bootlicker, listened avidly, nodding here and there. His faithful shadow, Dedue, just stood there stoically as was his wont. Annette, Ingrid, and Mercedes followed Dimitri’s example, interjecting only when it was asked of them. Ashe just stood there with an uncertain look on his face. Gilbert, whom Felix had mentally dubbed their babysitter, stood beside the professor looking regally disapproving of everything.

Only Sylvain remained quiet. It wasn’t the quiet of introspection—it was a quiet that announced a storm. Felix kept an eye on him, terrified at the fact that he just couldn’t read his face. His expression was thoroughly blank and his eyes unfathomable. He had barely said a word except to joke on his way here. Those who didn’t know him might consider this callousness. Felix interpreted this as _fear_. Not a fear for himself, perhaps, but a fear of facing the past. A fear that he might falter at the last second. Because, despite everything Miklan had put him through, Sylvain pitied him more than he hated him.

The only thing Felix could do was make sure to stay by his side. He wouldn’t let anyone steal his kill. Felix had promised Miklan only Sylvain would kill him, and he intended to keep that promise.

Once the professor gave her assent, they deployed. Her students followed her plan for about ten minutes—the first chance he got, Sylvain broke off from the group without a look behind. Byleth shouted at him to come back, but he didn’t listen.

“I’ll go after him,” Felix told her. When Dimitri made to follow, he barked: “Stay here, _boar_. Clean up the first floor.”

Conand tower was an ancient watchtower made to be nearly impregnable. It was tall and large, full of back corridors and dead-ends. Nobody seemed to know exactly how many bandits they were facing, and Felix grinded his teeth in annoyance at the bad intelligence. Of course Sylvain would just take off like that without thinking about anyone else. Of course he’d just run off without considering he might be facing terrible odds.

Felix was a hothead, but he wasn’t suicidal. He didn’t rush ahead blindly even if he wanted to. He had no idea where Sylvain had run off to. In the maze of corridors, he had no way of finding which turn he’d taken. Sounds came distorted from around him. He heard distant fighting and shouting and the clash of weapons. His heart was beating wildly inside his chest. His sword felt like paltry protection against what awaited him.

Stupid Sylvain. Why did he have to run off like that?

The sound of hurrying footsteps froze him. He cocked an ear, decided it came from his right, and hurriedly hid around the bend of a corridor. A couple of bandits rushed past him with a shout. Felix held his breath, sure that the sound of his heartbeat would alert them. Once they were out of earshot, he moved on.

He stumbled upon the first dead body at the bottom of a stairwell. The man, dressed in old clothes, had been pierced in the back by one precise lance thrust. Felix stared—he’d seen corpses before, but they always left a bad taste at the back of his mouth. He recognized Sylvain’s work and looked around. Of course, his friend hadn’t lingered here. The bloody print of a shoe that might belong to him was on the first step of the stairs.

Felix paused, trying to gather his bearings. He had only the vaguest idea of the lay of the tower. The professor had made them study the old construction plans of the place, but Felix seemed to have forgotten everything. The students were supposed to stick together, not run off like that. Felix had no idea where exactly he was. He had climbed a few stairs so he supposed he was no longer on the first floor. How many were there? Four or five? How had Sylvain managed to gain so much ground on him? Was he in that much of a hurry to kill Miklan?

Felix debated finding the others before deciding he preferred to go after Sylvain. At this point, retracing his footsteps might be more of an inconvenience. The professor wouldn’t be waiting for him anyway. (Felix didn’t want to be seen to rush back to hide in her skirts, anyway.)

He took a breath to calm himself, then started climbing the stairs. The old stone below his feet was scuffed from generations of boot heels. The air was close and cold, making him shiver. He kept pausing, trying to listen. Most of the sounds of fighting seemed to be coming from behind him. Either he was way ahead of the other students, or he was in a deserted part of the tower.

He reached the top of the staircase.

What if he stumbled upon Miklan first?

This caused him to stop, uncertain. He hadn’t quite entertained that thought yet. He had known he might _see_ Miklan. He had known he might have to _fight_ him too. But he hadn’t thought he might stumble upon him alone. He looked around, wondering if Sylvain had come this way. He looked down at his sword—a plain steel sword, reliable and tough. Would it be enough to win against Miklan? The only time they had sparred, Miklan had thrown him to the dirt effortlessly. If Felix’s swordsmanship had progressed over the past two years, Miklan had certainly improved too. Since he’d turned to banditry, he’d acquired the reputation of being savage and ruthless. Coupled with the mastery he’d acquired as the son of a lord, he would make a deadly opponent.

Shit.

Hadn’t Sylvain considered this before he ran off?

It was imperative that Felix find him, then. Together, they had a chance. They wouldn’t need the rest of the class. They wouldn’t need _Dimitri_ ’s help. (Dimitri, with his fucking pitying look when they’d learned who lead the bandits they were about to face—Felix shouldn’t have told him what had happened between Miklan and him.)

Felix hesitated where to go next. The corridor at the top of the stairwell branched off in two different directions. He couldn’t hear anything particular coming from either side. It was gloomy here, with only a few torches chasing the dark. A bit of water trickled down the old stone wall. Despite that, there was no dust on the ground. Felix supposed it meant people came and went this way regularly.

He chose right at random. He told himself he wasn’t really scared, that it was only excitement making his heart beat this fast. As he walked, he wondered what his father would think if he learned he’d gotten killed by _Miklan_. Would he call it divine retribution? Fate? Bad luck?

“He’d probably be happy,” Felix mumbled.

Things hadn’t improved between the two of them. They were barely on talking terms now. Felix was glad of the reprieve provided by the year spent at the academy. He didn’t think he would have managed another moment spent with his father in that manor filled with ghosts. Glenn’s room still hadn’t been touched. Felix had made it a habit to avoid walking by the door of his brother’s bedroom. Would his father leave his own room untouched should he die? Felix doubted it. He’d probably lit a bonfire with his stuff the second his body was put to rest in the crypt.

Well, maybe he’d take the time to mourn the death of his line and of the Fraldarius Crest.

Another bend in the corridor. Another narrow hallway branching off seemingly at random. Here, the windows were far too high on the wall for Felix to look out the tower to orient himself. He had the vaguest sense that this particular hall might face east, but he couldn’t be sure. The maze of chambers and corridors was making him feel dizzy. Here, the hallways were narrower, making him regret not bringing a shorter sword.

He stopped when he heard a sound behind him. He whirled, sword held in front of him, ready to face whoever stood there. There wasn’t anyone.

“Bloody hell,” he hissed. “I should go back.”

He retraced his footsteps. Sylvain clearly hadn’t come this way. With Felix lost as he was, it was possible Sylvain had already found Miklan and had already killed him. Or been killed. Shit, the whole class might have been killed or hurt. By leaving, Felix had deprived them of their best swordsman. Mercedes, Ashe, and Annette weren’t really fighters. They were expected to provide support for the front line. With Felix and Sylvain gone, that front line had thinned indeed.

He fell into a jog, thoughts of his dead classmates lying on the bloodied floor spurring him on. He didn’t like them but he didn’t want them dead either. Sure, the boar was a great fighter. He was strong and reliable and—

A blur appeared out the corner of his eye. Something hit his ankle. Suddenly, the ground wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He pitched forward with a startled shout. He managed to more or less break his fall, rolling on his shoulder rather than falling flat on his face. It happened too fast and he miscalculated something somewhere—his head smacked against a hard surface.

Pain exploded behind his closed eyelids. Darkness closed in on him, threatening to engulf him completely. Groaning, he fought to remain conscious. Bile rose in his throat at the throbbing agony in his skull. For half a second, he had no idea where up and down were.

A vice-like grip closed around his upper arm. A sharp pull hauled him to his feet. The world tilted crazily. Blood rushed to his head. He tried swinging his sword in the direction of whoever had him by the arm, only to realise his weapon had been knocked out of his hand. Garbled noises reached his ears. Were those voices? Had Sylvain found him?

“Sylvain?” he asked, blinking hard to chase the dark spots dancing in front of his eyes.

Someone shook him slightly. “Wrong Gautier, little Fraldarius. Try again.”

Felix’s blood ran cold. He froze. He blinked again as he immediately recognized the voice.

Miklan.

Holy shit. He had stumbled straight into Miklan.

The horror of this helped clear his vision. The world came back into focus, if somewhat blurry around the edges. The first thing Felix noted were the four men standing a few feet away, all of them looking annoyed. They each bore a weapon that they seemed quite ready to use.

Then, with trepidation, he looked up into Miklan’s face. “Shit.”

Miklan had aged badly—although it had only been a couple of years since they’d last seen each other, Miklan looked to have aged a decade. There were deep lines around his eyes and mouth. The scar that barred his face seemed to stand out more starkly than before. His bright red hair was duller, longer and shaggier than ever. There was also an unhealthy tint to his skin, like he didn’t go out in the sun much. In fact, everything about him appeared washed out—even his brown eyes were lackluster.

The grin he gave hadn’t changed one bit however. He glanced at the men waiting behind him and barked: “Go. I’ll deal with this one.”

One of them hesitated. He said nervously: “Boss, he’s a brat with a Crest.”

“It’s fine. We go way back, the brat and me.”

They left, clearly uneasy to leave their boss. This surprised Felix a little—he wouldn’t have believed Miklan to be a good leader.

Once they were alone in the corridor, Felix said: “Let go of me.” The pressure on his arm was starting to get painful.

Miklan didn’t. He gave him an once-over, his amused grin slowly fading. “I see.”

“What?” Felix asked. He couldn’t help being insulted at the dismissive tone the older man had used.

“You chose to remain your father’s heir. You became one of them.”

Felix gritted his teeth. “I didn’t get disinherited, if that’s what you mean.” He gave his arm a shake. “Let go of me, Miklan.”

Miklan let go of his arm, only to seize him quickly by the jaw. He dug his gloved fingers into his skin and dragged him closer. Felix made a noise of discomfort at the back of his throat. He had to stand on his tiptoes to relieve the pressure on his jaw. He had no leverage to fight back. He didn’t know this didn’t alarm him too much.

“So you’ve come with Sylvain to kill me,” Miklan said conversationally. “You must be happy he’s finally getting rid of me.”

“We have no choice. You stole the Lance of Ruin. What possessed you, you moron? Surely, you knew your father wouldn’t allow it.”

Miklan snorted. “I did it because I could. I just didn’t think he’d send a bunch of schoolchildren to retrieve it. What a coward. Can’t even face me himself.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll finally be able to strike Sylvain down. I just wish I could see my old man’s face when he learns of it.”

Felix offered a little smirk of his own. “You truly think you can beat Sylvain? Don’t flatter yourself. He’s grown much stronger.”

“Yes, and he has his little friends to back him up. How sweet. Why aren’t _you_ with the others, however?” Miklan quirked an eyebrow and his grin grew lewd. “You were desperate to find me alone?”

Felix’s face heated up at the suggestion. He hated how easily his body responded to the other man’s voice. He had yet to find someone else who could stir him the way Miklan did. He had tried with little success, finding squires and fellow students boring. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“No? That’s just too bad.” Miklan dragged him closer and leaned in until their noses were almost touching. “I kind of missed you, little Fraldarius. The thought of your pretty face kept me warm for many nights. It’s almost unfair that you’ve grown even prettier.”

“Don’t lie, you asshole! Unhand me! That won’t stop Sylvain from killing you!”

Miklan’s eyes grew cold. He tightened his grip for a terrifying second before pushing him away. Felix stumbled back, hands going to his painful jaw. He threw a wary look around—his sword was a few feet away, clearly out of reach. For the first time, Felix noted that Miklan had a lance clutched in his free hand. It was the Lance of Ruin—he remembered Sylvain showing it to him once when they were kids. It glowed an ethereal golden colour, but nothing bright like the Sword of the Creator that Byleth wielded.

“You don’t have a Crest,” Felix pointed out, nodding towards the Lance. “It’s useless to you.” He straightened. “Give it to me. You don’t have to die.”

This surprised Miklan. He laughed. “I believe I must have misheard you! Care to repeat that?”

“Give me the Lance. If we return it to your father, he’ll leave you alone. You don’t have to die for something you cannot even use.”

This was madness. What was he saying? Retrieving the Lance wasn’t what mattered here—it was that Sylvain get his revenge. But Felix thought of his friend’s blank stare and doubted. Sylvain pitied Miklan. If he killed him, what would that do to him? Maybe someone else should strike the final blow—

But no, it wouldn’t change anything. Felix had long ago decided that only Sylvain was allowed to kill his brother. If it weren’t for the Lance, Sylvain wouldn’t be here. He’d never actively sought Miklan out. If Felix could get the weapon, they all could leave. Nobody had to die.

Miklan leaned on the lance, grinning in amusement. “You’re cute, little Fraldarius. If you want the Lance, you can pry it from my cold dead hands. I didn’t steal it to use it, brat. I did it to thumb my nose at my father. I knew it would get a reaction out of him. You’d understand, if you hadn’t run back to your daddy the way you did.”

There was an odd note to Miklan’s voice that Felix didn’t understand.

“I didn’t run back to him,” Felix defended himself, flushing. “He just didn’t disinherit me.”

“And that means you’ll do his bidding for the rest of your life? Marry, have children, become Duke Fraldarius in a few years? You’ll also lick the king’s boots? You’ll fuck a few knights, hoping your wife doesn’t find out? You’re pathetic.”

“Fuck you!”

“You could have joined me,” Miklan added, serious expression once again firmly on his face. Whatever warmth had been in his eyes disappeared. “You could have been free to do as you wanted. You whined about your father, yet you’re going to end up just like him. I should have known better than to think you’d see reason. You prefer being rich and powerful than being free.”

The accusation was like a physical blow. Felix staggered back, eyes going wide. This was all happening too fast. He didn’t know what to answer, how to answer. “T-that’s… that’s not true!”

Miklan shifted his grip on the lance easily. The weapon spun in a slow circle. There was no more playing around. In his old battered armour, he looked every inch the fallen warrior. “I’ll give you a chance, future duke Fraldarius. Pick up your sword and run back to your friends. When we meet, pray that I don’t get my hands on you or I won’t be as merciful.”

As if Miklan’s words had casted a spell, Felix moved woodenly. He bent to pick his sword up, fingers numb. Then, without a look behind, he retraced his steps. In the distance, he could hear the sound of fighting. He easily recognized Byleth’s voice as she shouted orders at her students. They were almost here.

It was almost time to finish it.

Felix had no idea why he felt so wretched. No idea why the sight of his classmates only filled him with dread.

No idea why he cried when it was all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks!
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you!! I hope you've enjoyed reading this! I honestly had a lot of fun writing this. What started as a one-shot ended up being 50,000 words, far more than I would have expected! Honestly, it could have been much, much longer. I actually even considered writing Felix abandoning his title to join Miklan's bandits, but decided against it since it wasn't what I had originally planned. (I might however write it eventually, who knows!)
> 
> Anyway, once again, thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/mattywriter/)


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